No! those days are gone away, And their hours are old and gray, And their minutes buried all Under the down-trodden pall Of the leaves of many years: Many times have Winter's shears, Frozen North, and chilling East, Sounded tempests to the feast, Of the forest's whispering fleeces, Since men knew nor rent nor leases.
No, the bugle sounds no more, And the twanging bow no more, Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill; There is no mid-forest laugh, Where lone Echo gives the half To some wight, amazed to hear Jesting, deep in forest drear.
On the fairest time of June You may go, with sun or moon, Or the seven stars to light you, Or the polar ray to right you; But you never may behold Little John, or Robin bold: Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can, Some old hunting ditty, while He doth his green way beguile To fair hostess Merriment, Down beside the pasture Trent; For he left the merry tale, Messenger for spicy ale.
Gone, the merry morris din; Gone, the song of Gamelyn; Gone, the tough-belted outlaw Idling in the "grené shawe;" All are gone away and past! And if Robin should be cast Sudden from his tufted grave, And if Marian should have Once again her forest days,
She would weep, and he would craze : He would swear, for all his oaks, Fallen beneath the dock-yard strokes, Have rotted on the briny seas; She would weep that her wild bees. Sang not to her-strange! that honey Can't be got without hard money!
So it is; yet let us sing Honor to the old bow-string! Honor to the bugle-horn! Honor to the woods unshorn! Honor to the Lincoln green! Honor to the archer keen! Honor to tight Little John, And the horse he rode upon!
Honor to bold Robin Hood, Sleeping in the underwood! Honor to Maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood clan! Though their days have hurried by, Let us two a burden try.
As I lay in my bed, slepe full unmete Was unto me, but why that I ne might
Rest I ne wist, for there n' as erthly wight
(As I suppose) had more of hertis ese
Than I, for I n' ad sicknesse nor disese.-CHAUCER.
WHAT is more gentle than a wind in summer? What is more soothing than the pretty hummer That stays one moment in an open flower, And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower? What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing In a green island, far from all men's knowing? More healthful than the leafiness of dales? More secret than a nest of nightingales? More serene than Cordelia's countenance? More full of visions than a high romance? What, but thee, Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes? Low murmurer of tender lullabies!
Light hoverer around our happy pillows! Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows! Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses!
Most happy listener! when the morning blesses Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes That glance so brightly at the new sunrise.
But what is higher beyond thought than thee? Fresher than berries of a mountain tree?
More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal, Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle? What is it? And to what shall I compare it?
It has a glory, and nought else can share it: The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy, Chasing away all worldliness and folly: Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder; Or the low rumblings earth's regions under; And sometimes like a gentle whispering Of all the secrets of some wondrous thing That breathes about us in the vacant air; So that we look around with prying stare, Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial limning; And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning; To see the laurel-wreath on high suspended, That is to crown our name when life is ended. Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice, And from the heart upsprings, rejoice! rejoice! Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things, And die away in ardent mutterings.
No one who once the glorious sun has seen, And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean For his great Maker's presence, but must know What 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow: Therefore no insult will I give his spirit, By telling what he sees from native merit.
O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen, That am not yet a glorious denizen Of thy wide heaven-should I rather kneel Upon some mountain-top until I feel
A glowing splendor round about me hung, And echo back the voice of thine own tongue? O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen,
That am not yet a glorious denizen
Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer, Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, Smoothed for intoxication by the breath Of flowering bays, that I may die a death Of luxury, and my young spirit follow The morning sunbeams to the great Apollo, Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear
The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring me to the fair Visions of all places: a bowery nook
Will be elysium-an eternal book
Whence I may copy many a lovely saying
About the leaves, and flowers-about the playing Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid;
And many a verse from so strange influence u That we must ever wonder how, and whence_
It came. Also imaginings will hover Round my fireside, and haply there discover Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander In happy silence, like the clear Meander Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot, Or a green hill o'erspread with chequered dress Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness, Write on my tablets all that was permitted, All that was for our human senses fitted. Then the events of this wide world I'd seize Like a strong giant, and my spirit tease Till at its shoulders it should proudly see Wings to find out an immortality.
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