Her coming made him better; and they stayed 66 Something within that interval which bore The stamp of why they parted, how they met;— Yet, if thine aged eyes disdain to wet Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's remembered tears, Ask me no more; but let the silent years 190 THE WOODMAN AND THE NIGHTINGALE. A WOODMAN, whose rough heart was out of tune (I think such hearts yet never came to good,) Hated to hear, under the stars or moon, One nightingale in an interfluous wood Or as the moonlight fills the open sky Like clouds above the flower from which they rose, The singing of that happy nightingale In this sweet forest, from the golden close Of evening till the star of dawn may fail, Heard her within their slumbers, the abyss Of heaven with all its planets; the dull ear Of the circumfluous waters,-every sphere And every beast stretched in its rugged cave, Of one serene and unapproached star, Itself how low, how high, beyond all height form That worshipped in the temple of the night Was awed into delight, and by the charm Whilst that sweet bird, whose music was a storm Of sound, shook forth the dull oblivion Out of their dreams; harmony became love ... And so this man returned with axe and saw Was cach a wood-nymph, and kept ever green With jagged leaves,-and from the forest tops Singing the winds to sleep-or weeping oft Fast showers of aërial water drops Into their mother's bosom, sweet and soft, They spread themselves into the loveliness Hang like moist clouds: or, where high branches kiss, Make a green space among the silent bowers, Surrounded by the columns and the towers All overwrought with branch-like traceries Odours and gleams and murmurs, which the lute Stirs as it sails, now grave and now acute, Wakening the leaves and waves ere it has past To such brief unison as on the brain One tone, which never can recur, has cast, One accent never to return again MISERY.-A FRAGMENT. COME, be happy!-sit near me,. Coy, unwilling, silent bride, Come, be happy!-sit near me: Misery! we have known each other "Tis an evil lot, and yet If love can live when pleasure dies, Come, be happy!—lie thee down On the fresh grass newly mown, 13 VOL. III. |