T The Northern Lights. O claim the Arctic came the sun They froze beneath the light of stars; BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR. To the Skylark. HAIL to thee, blithe spirit !— Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher, From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run; Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale, purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven, In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight, THE SKYLARK. Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lanıp narrows Until we hardly sec, we feel that it is there. II All the earth and air From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow-clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden, In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aërial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingéd thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine, That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphal chant, Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt― A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear, keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. THE SKYLARK. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream; Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought, Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound; That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 13 To the Cuckoo. HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of Spring! Now heaven repairs thy rural seat, Soon as the daisy decks the green, Delightful visitant! with thee The school-boy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, thy most curious voice to hear, And imitates thy lay. What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fliest thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands, Sweet bird thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year! Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! JOHN LOGAN. |