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 The first wild-bird that drinks the dew, From violets of the spring, Has music in his song, and in The fluttering of his wing.

There's music in the dash of waves When the swift bark cleaves their foam; There's music heard upon her deck, The mariner's song of home, When moon and star beams smiling meet At midnight on the sea— And there is music—once a week— In Scudder's balcony.

But the music of young thoughts too soon Is faint, and dies away, And from our morning dreams we wake To curse the coming day. And childhood's frolic hours are brief, And oft in after-years Their memory comes to chill the heart, And dim the eye with tears.

To-day the forest-leaves are green, They'll wither on the morrow,