« PreviousContinue »
To find the earliest fragrant thing .
The little brooks run on in light,
The skies are blue, the air is balm;
Our very hearts have caught the charm
The aged man is in the field,
The sons of sorrow and distress
Are wand'ring in forgetfulness
She comes with more than present good—
From which, in striving crowds apart,
The bow'd in spirit, bruised in heart,
Up—let us to the fields away,
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
e With d. resemblance of a grievous wrong, Or slow distemper, or neglected love, (And so, poor wretch! #. all things with himself, And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he, First named these notes a melancholy strain: And many a poet echoes the conceit: Poet who hath been building up the rhyme When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, By sum or moon-light, to the influxes Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song And of his fame forgetful! So his fame Should share in Nature's immortality, A venerable thing ! and so his song Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself Be loved like Nature ' But 'twill not be so; And youths and maidens most poetical, Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still Full of meek sympath must heave their sighs O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. My Friend, and |. our Sister! we have learnt A different lore: we may not thus profane Nature's sweet voices, always full of love And joyance! "Tis the merry Nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April might 5
Would be too short for him to utter forth
And I know a grove Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, Which the great lord inhabits not; and so This grove is wild with tangling underwood, And the trim walks are j up, and grass, Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. But never elsewhere in one go. I knew So many Nightingales; and far and near, In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, They answer and provoke each other's songs, With skirmish and o passagings, And murmurs musical and swift jug jug ; And one, low piping, sounds more sweet than all, Stirring the air with such an harmony, That should you close your eyes, § might almost Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes, Whose dewy leafits are but half disclosed, You may perchance behold them on the twigs, Their * bright eyes, their eyes both bright and
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade Lights up her love-torch.
A most gentle Maid, Who dwelleth in her hospitable home Hard by the castle, and at latest eve (Even like a lady vowed and dedicate To something more than nature in the grove) Glides thro' the pathways; she knows all their notes, That gentle Maid! and oft a moment's space, What time the Moon was lost behind a cloud, Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the Moon Emerging, hath awakened earth and sk With one sensation, and these wakeful birds Haye all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, As if one quick and sudden gale had swept
An hundred airy harps! And she hath watch'd
Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,
Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free
Melted to one vast Iris of the West,
Where the day joins the past eternity;
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air—an island of the blest!
A single star is at her side, and reigns
• Nature reclaim'd her order:-gently flows
Which ". upon her stream, and glass'd within it
Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, Comes down upon the waters; all its hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star, Their magical variety diffuse: And now they change; a paler shadow strews Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till—'tis gone—and all is gray. ByRoN.