So I straightway began to pluck a posy, A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them; How silent comes the water round that bend! Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without Why you might read two sonnets, ere they them! And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, And let long grass grow round the roots, to keep them Moist, cool, and green; and shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. A filbert-hedge with wild brier overtwined, And clumps of woodbine, taking the soft wind Upon their summer thrones; there too should be The frequent chequer of a youngling tree, That with a score of light green brethren shoots From the quaint mossiness of aged roots, Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters, Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters, The spreading blue-bells: it may haply mourn That such fair clusters should be rudely torn From their fresh beds, and, scattered thoughtlessly By infant hands, left on the path to die. reach To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds; Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams, To taste the luxury of sunny beams Tempered with coolness. How they ever wrestle With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand! The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses, NATURE AND THE POETS. O let me lead her gently o'er the broðk, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look; O let me for one moment touch her wrist; Let me one moment to her breathing list; And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburn. What next? a tuft of evening primroses, O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes; O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, But that 'tis ever startled by the leap Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting Of divers moths, that aye their rest are quitting; Or by the moon lifting her silver rim O Maker of sweet poets! dear delight Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams; Thee must I praise above all other glories 51 So that we feel uplifted from the world, Walking upon the white clouds wreathed and curled. So felt he who first told how Psyche went On the smooth wind to realms of wonder. ment; What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips First touch'd; what amorous and fondling nips They gave each other's cheeks-with all their sighs, And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes; The silver lamp-the ravishment-the wonder The darkness-loneliness-the fearful thun der; Their woes gone by, and both to heaven up flown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne. So did he feel, who pulled the boughs aside, Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet: Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind Along the reedy stream! a half-heard strain, Full of sweet desolation-balmy pain. What first inspired a bard of old to sing O'erhead we see the jasmine and sweet-Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool brier, And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire; While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles The blue sky here and there serenely peeping, Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping. And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, Charms us at once away from all our trou- A meek and forlorn flower, with nought of Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clear- As thou exceedest all things in thy shine, ness, To woo its own sad image into nearness. So while the poet stood in this sweet spot, So every tale does this sweet tale of thine. Where distant ships do seem to show their Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels, Where had he been, from whose warm That men of health were of unusual cheer, Who stood on Latmos' top, what time there Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with de A hymn from Dian's temple; while upswell- Young men and maidens at each other gazed, ing, The incense went to her own starry dwelling. With hands held back, and motionless, amazed To see the brightness in each other's eyes; But though her face was clear as infants' And so they stood, fill'd with a sweet sur eyes, Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice, And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion. Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen prise, Until their tongues were loosed in poesy. Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses That follow'd thine, and thy dear shepherd's kisses: Was there a poet born?-But now no more— Of all the brightness that mine eyes have My wandering spirit must no farther soar. seen! JOHN KEATS. THE NIGHTINGALE. 53 TO THE NIGHTINGALE. O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day, First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love. O if Jove's will Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh; As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why. Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I. JOHN MILTON. She, poor bird, as all forlorn, That, to hear her so complain, Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee;'. All thy friends are lapp'd in lead: TO THE NIGHTINGALE. DEAR chorister, who from those shadows sends Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends, Become all ear, stars stay to hear thy plight; If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends, Ah! (thought I) thou mourn 'st in vain; Who ne'er (not in a dream) did taste delight, None takes pity on thy pain; May thee importune who like case pretends, Where but to think is to be full of sorrow, Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite; plains? The bird, as if my questions did her move, I love." WILLIAM DRUMMOND. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains One minute past, and Lethe-ward had sunk. 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness, That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of Summer in full-throated ease. Oh for a draught of vintage Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burned Oh for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful-Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth— Away! away! for I will fly to thee! Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, Already with thee tender is the night, And haply the queen-moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I can not see what flowers are at my feet, boughs; But, in embalmed darkness guess each sweet White hawthorn and the pastoral eglantine; The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of bees on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, That I might drink, and leave the world Called him soft names in many a mused unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim. Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never The weariness, the fever, and the fret; groan Where palsy shakes a few sad, last gray hairs rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight, with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad, In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird! Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, The voice I hear this passing night was heard and dies In ancient days by emperor and clown: |