All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass, Teach no 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 triumphant 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 can not be: Shades of annoyance Never come near thee: Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 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: Our sincerest laughter 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; Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. A LARK SINGING IN A RAINBOW. Fraught with a transient, frozen shower If a cloud should haply lower, THOMAS WARTON, 1728-1790. THE SKYLARK. FROM "THE FARMER'S BOY." When music waking, speaks the skylark nigh, His form, his motion, undistinguish'd quite, Save when he wheels direct from shade to light; E'en then the songster a mere speck become, Gliding like fancy's bubbles in a dream, The gazer sees ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, 1766-1823. THE MOORS OF JUTLAND. FROM THE DANISH. I lay on my heathery hills all alone, The storm-winds rush'd o'er me in turbulence loud; My eyes wandered starward from cloud unto cloud. There wandered my eyes, but my thoughts onward passed, Gloomy and gray are the moorlands, where rest My fathers, yet there doth the wild heather bloom; And amid the old cairns the lark buildeth her nest, And sings in the desert, o'er hill-top, and tomb! Translation of MRS. HOWITT. BLICKER. THE RISING OF THE LARK. For so have I seen a lark rising from his bed of grass, and, soaring upward, sing as he rises, and hopes to get to heaven, and climb above the clouds; but the poor bird was beaten back with the loud sighings of an eastern wind, and his motion made irregular and inconstant, descending more and more at every breath of the tempest than it could recover by the libration and frequent weighing of his wings; till the little creature was forced to sit down and pant, and stay till the storm was over, and then it made a prosperous flight, and did rise and sing, as if it had learned music and motion from an angel, as he passed sometimes through the air about his ministries here below: so is the prayer of a good man. JEREMY TAYLOR, 1613-1667. THE LARK. Bird of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matins o'er moorland and lea! Blest is thy dwelling-place- O to abide in the desert with thee! Far in the downy cloud; Love gives it energy-love gave it birth : Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven-thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Blest is thy dwelling-place O to abide in the desert with thee! JAMES HOGG. LARK. To the last point of vision, and beyond, Mount, daring warbler! that love-prompted strain ("Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain; Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; WORDSWORTH. LINES. So when the lark, poor bird! afar espyeth GILES FLETCHER, 158S-1623. |