Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perched in ecstacies,

Yet seeming still to hover;

There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.

My dazzled sight he oft deceives,
A Brother of the dancing leaves;
Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes;

As if by that exulting strain

He mocked and treated with disdain
The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
While fluttering in the bushes.

1803

XX

O NIGHTINGALE! thou surely art
A creature of a 'fiery heart' :-—

These notes of thine-they pierce and pierce;
Tumultuous harmony and fierce!

Thou sing'st as if the God of wine

Had helped thee to a Valentine ;

A song in mockery and despite

Of shades, and dews, and silent night;
And steady bliss, and all the loves
Now sleeping in these peaceful groves.

I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale, this very day ;
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come-at by the breeze :

He did not cease; but cooed—and cooed;
And somewhat pensively he wooed :
He sang of love, with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith, and inward glee;
That was the song-the song for me!

XXI

TO THE CUCKOO

O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard,

I hear thee and rejoice.

O Cuckoo shall I call thee Bird,

Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass

Thy twofold shout I hear,
From hill to hill it seems to pass,

At once far off, and near.

1806

Though babbling only to the Vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers,

Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry

Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green ;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;

Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget

That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, faery place;

That is fit home for Thee!

XXII

TRIBUTE

TO THE MEMORY OF A FAVOURITE DOG

LIE here, without a record of thy worth,
Beneath a covering of the common earth!
It is not from unwillingness to praise,

Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise ;
More thou deserv'st; but this man gives to man,
Brother to brother, this is all we can.

Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear
Shall find thee through all changes of the year:
This Oak points out thy grave; the silent tree

Will gladly stand a monument of thee.

We grieved for thee, and wished thy end were past ; And willingly have laid thee here at last :

For thou hadst lived till every thing that cheers
In thee had yielded to the weight of years;
Extreme old age had wasted thee away,
And left thee but a glimmering of the day;
Thy ears were deaf, and feeble were thy knees,—
I saw thee stagger in the summer breeze,
Too weak to stand against its sportive breath,
And ready for the gentlest stroke of death.

It came, and we were glad; yet tears were shed;
Both man and woman wept when thou wert dead;
Not only for a thousand thoughts that were,

Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share;

But for some

precious boons vouchsafed to thee,

Found scarcely any where in like degree! For love, that comes wherever life and sense Are given by God, in thee was most intense; A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind, A tender sympathy, which did thee bind Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind: Yea, for thy fellow-brutes in thee we saw A soul of love, love's intellectual law :Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame; Our tears from passion and from reason came, And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured name!

1805

LIFE with

XXIII

COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING, 1838

yon Lambs, like day, is just begun,

Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide.
Does joy approach? they meet the coming tide;
And sullenness avoid, as now they shun

Pale twilight's lingering glooms,-and in the sun

Couch

near their dams, with quiet satisfied;

Or gambol-each with his shadow at his side,
Varying its shape wherever he may run.