The summer noon was soft and fair As the face of a sleeping child; The roses drooped in the stirless air, And Earth in its beauty seemed to wear The garb of the undefiled.
The golden sun was flashing out, And the reaper tied the sheaf; The bee went heavily about, And the fine old tree, so tall and stout, Moved not its topmost leaf.
A blackbird, perched on that old tree, Kept whistling clear and loud; Its little heart, brimful of glee, Seemed running o'er with joy, to be In a spot without a cloud.
All things were beautiful and still, In the flush of gladsome light; And the bird with many a gushing trill, Seemed pouring thanks to the power and will That made its home so bright.
But ere another hour was past, The thunder-scowl was round; The chilling rain poured cold and fast, And the old tree bent in the sudden blast, With a dull and moaning sound.
The flowers fell in their deluged bed, Their glory stained with clay; The corn laid down, and the reapers fled, The hardiest pilgrim hid his head, And gloom was over the day.
But there was the blackbird still in the tree, With its paean not yet done; It carolled away in its earnest glee, As though it were sure, that God must be In the shadow as well as the sun.
Its wings were drenched and the bough was wet, No ray was below or above; But it shook its dripping feathers of jet, And hopefully resting, it carolled yet In the tone of grateful love.
I watched the clouds and I saw the bird, As it whistled on the bough; And a lesson came in the notes I heard, The spirit in my heart was stirred, And Thought sat on my brow.
It whispered thus, "Oh, child of Earth, Learn thou to sing with trust; Not only in the hour of mirth, But when the sorrowing time of dearth May lay thy joys in dust!
"Though gloom may gather in your way, Yet let your faith be warm; And while the mingling thunders play, Let the heart still pour forth its fervent lay, —The Blackbird of Life's Storm!"
