V.

=Lark and Nightingale.=

The voices of these two noblest of the singing-birds of the Old World may be heard, in echoing accompaniment, throughout the prolonged choir of European poets, from the earliest dawn of civilization to the present hour. There are few poems of any length, in either of the languages of Europe, in which some allusion to one or the other has not a place. The noblest poets of the earth were born companions to these birds; beneath skies saluted by the lark, among groves haunted by the nightingale. These little creatures sung with Homer and Sappho among the isles of Greece—for Virgil and Horace on the plains of Italy; they cheered Dante in his lifelong wandering exile, and Petrarch in his solitary hermitage. Conceive also the joy with which Chaucer, and Shakspeare, and Spenser listened, each in his day, among the daisied fields of England, to music untaught, instinctive like their own! What pure delight, indeed, have these birds not given

to the heart of genius during thousands of springs and summers! How many generations have they not charmed with their undying melodies! They would almost seem by their sweetness to have soothed the inexorable powers of Time and Death. Were an old Greek or an ancient Roman to rise from the dust this summer’s day—were he to awaken, after ages of sleep, to walk his native soil again, scarce an object on which his eye fell would wear a familiar aspect; scarce a sound which struck his ear but would vibrate there most strangely; yet with the dawn, rising from the plain of Marathon, or the Latin Hills, he would hear the same noble lark which sung in his boyhood; and with the moon, among the olives and ilexes shading the fallen temple, would come the same sweet nightingale which entranced his youth.

THE NOTE OF THE NIGHTINGALE.

A LETTER OF CHARLES JAMES FOX.

DEAR GREY—In defense of my opinion about the nightingales, I find Chaucer—who of all poets seems to have been the fondest of the singing of birds—calls it a merry note; and though Theocritus mentions nightingales six or seven times, he never mentions their note as plaintive or melancholy. It is true he does not call it anywhere merry, as Chaucer does, but by mentioning it with the song of the blackbird, and as answering it, he seems to imply that it was a cheerful note. Sophocles is against us; but he says, “_lamenting Itys_,” and the comparison of her to Electra is rather as to perseverance, day and night, than as to sorrow. At all events, a tragic poet is not half so good authority in this question as Theocritus and Chaucer. I can not light upon the passage in the “Odyssey,” where Penelope’s restlessness is compared to the nightingale, but I am sure it is only as to restlessness that he makes the comparison. If you will read the last twelve books of the “Odyssey” you will certainly find it, and I am sure you will be paid for your hunt, whether you find it or not. The passage in Chaucer is in the “Flower and Leaf.” The one I particularly allude to in Theocritus is in his “Epigrams,” I think in the fourth. Dryden has transferred the word _merry_ to the goldfinch, in the “Flower and the Leaf”—in deference, may be, to the vulgar error. But pray read his description of the nightingale there; it is quite delightful. I am afraid that I like these researches as much better than those that relate to Shaftesbury and Sunderland, as I do those better than attending the House of Commons.

Yours affectionately, C. J. FOX

The nightingale with so _merry a note_ Answered him, that all the wood rong So sodainly, that as it were a sote, I stood astonied, so was I with the song Thorow ravished, that till late and long I ne wist in what place I was, ne where; And ayen, me thought, she song ever by mine ear. CHAUCER’S “_Flower and Leaf_.”

A goldfinch there I saw, with gaudy pride Of painted plumes, that hopp’d from side to side, Still perching as she pass’d; and still she drew The sweets from every flower, and sucked the dew: Suffic’d at length, she warbled in her throat, And tun’d her voice to many _a merry note_, But indistinct, and neither sweet nor clear. Her short performance was no sooner tried, When she I sought, the nightingale, replied: So sweet, so shrill, so variously she sung, That the grove echoed, and the valleys rung; And I so ravish’d with her heavenly note, I stood entranc’d, and had no room for thought; But all o’erpower’d with an ecstasy of bliss, Was in a pleasing dream of Paradise. DRYDEN’S “_Flower and Leaf_.”

As when the months are clad in flowery green, _Sad Philomel_, in bowery shades unseen, To vernal airs attunes her varied strains, And Itylus sound warbling o’er the plains. Young Itylus! his parent’s darling joy, Whom chance misled the mother to destroy, Now doom’d a wakeful bird to wail the beauteous boy. _So in nocturnal solitude forlorn_, A sad variety of woes I mourn. _Odyssey, Book XIX._

SONNET.

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 link’d 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.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

APRIL, 1798.

No cloud, no relic of the sunken day, Distinguishes the west; no long, thin slip Of sullen light—no obscure, trembling hues. Come; we will rest on this old mossy bridge! You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, But hear no murmuring; it flows silently O’er its soft bed of verdure. All is still— A balmy night! and though the stars be dim, Yet let us think upon the vernal showers That gladden the green earth, and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. And hark! the nightingale begins its song, “Most musical, most melancholy” bird! A melancholy bird! Oh, idle thought! In nature there is nothing melancholy. * * * ’Tis the merry nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast, thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His lone chant, and disburden his full soul Of all its music! 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 broken up, and grass— Thin grass, and king-cups grow within the paths. But never elsewhere in one place I knew So many nightingales; and far and near,

In wood and thicket, over the wide grove They answer, and provoke each other’s song With skirmish and capricious passagings, And murmurs musical, and swift jug-jug, And one low, piping sound, more sweet than all, Stirring the air with such a harmony, That should you close your eyes, you might almost Forget it was not day! On moonlit bushes, Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed, You may, perchance, behold them on the twigs, Their bright, bright eyes—their eyes both bright and full, 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 through 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 sky With one sensation, and these wakeful birds Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, As if some sudden gale had swept at once A hundred airy harps! and she hath watched Many a nightingale perched giddily On blossoming twig still swinging from the breeze, And to that motion tune his wanton song, Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-ward sunk: ’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness, Than 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, Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burned mirth! 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, That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim.

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret; Here, where men sit and hear each other groan— Where palsy shakes a few sad, last gray hairs— Where youth grows pale, and specter-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow, And leaden-eyed despairs; Where beauty can not keep her lustrous eyes, Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of poesy, Though the dull train perplexes and retards; 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, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets, covered up in leaves, And mid-May’s oldest child, 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,

Called him soft names in many a mused 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! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn: The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell, To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy can not cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music—do I wake or sleep? JOHN KEATS, 1796–1820.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

FROM THE DUTCH.

Prize thou the nightingale, Who soothes thee with his tale, And wakes the woods around; A singing feather, he—a winged and wandering sound:

Whose tender carroling Sets all ears listening Unto that living lyre, Whence flow the airy notes his ecstasies inspire;

Whose shrill, capricious song, Breathes like a flute along, With many a careless tone— Music of thousand tongues, formed by one tongue alone.

O charming creature rare, Can aught with thee compare? Thou art all song—thy breast Thrills for one month o’ th’ year—is tranquil all the rest.

Thee wondrous we may call— Most wondrous this of all, That such a tiny throat Should wake so loud a sound, and pour so loud a note. MARIA TESSELSCHADE VISSCHER—_Born in the 16th century._

_Translation of_ DR. BOWRING.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE.

The rose looks out in the valley, And thither will I go! To the rosy vale, where the nightingale Sings his song of woe.

The virgin is on the river side, Culling the lemons pale: Thither—yes! thither will I go, To the rosy vale, where the nightingale Sings his song of woe.

The fairest fruit her hand hath cull’d, ’Tis for her lover all: Thither—yes! thither will I go, To the rosy vale, where the nightingale Sings his song of woe.

In her hat of straw, for her gentle swain, She has placed the lemons pale: Thither—yes! thither will I go, To the rosy vale, where the nightingale Sings his song of woe. _Translation of_ JOHN BOWRING. GIL VICENTE, 1480–1557.

THE MOTHER BIRD.

SIMILE FROM “DIVINA COMMEDIA.”

Like as the bird who on her nest all night Had rested, darkling with her tender brood, 'Mid the loved foliage, longing now for light, To gaze on their dear looks, and bring them food: Sweet task! whose pleasures all its toil repay— Anticipates the dawn, and through the wood Ascending, perches on the topmost spray; There, all impatience, watching to descry The first faint glimmer of approaching day: Thus did my lady toward the southern sky, Erect and motionless, her visage turn; The mute suspense that filled her wistful eye, Made me like one who waits a friend’s return, Lives on this hope, and will no other own. _Translation of_ F. C. GRAY. DANTE ALIGHIERI, 1265–1321.

THE MOTHER NIGHTINGALE.

FROM THE SPANISH.

I have seen a nightingale, On a sprig of thyme bewail, Seeing the dear nest, which was Hers alone, borne off, alas! By a laborer. I heard, For this outrage, the poor bird Say a thousand mournful things To the wind, which, on its wings, From her to the guardian of the sky, Bore her melancholy cry— Bore her tender tears. She spake As if her fond heart would break: One while, in a sad, sweet note, Gurgled from her straining throat; She enforced her piteous tale, Mournful prayer, and plaintive wail; One while with the shrill dispute, Quite outwearied, she was mute; Then afresh for her dear brood, Her harmonious shrieks renewed.

Now she winged it round and round; Now she skimmed along the ground; Now, from bough to bough, in haste, The delighted robber chased, And, alighting in his path, Seemed to say, ’twixt grief and wrath, “Give me back, fierce rustic rude— Give me back my pretty brood!” And I saw the rustic still Answered, “That I never will!” _Translation of_ T. ROSCOE. ESTEVAN MANUEL DE VILLEGAS, 1595–1669.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

FROM THE DUTCH.

Soul of living music, teach me— Teach me, floating thus along! Love-sick warbler, come and reach me With the secrets of thy song!

How thy beak, so sweetly trembling, On one note long lingering tries; Or a thousand tones assembling, Pour the rush of harmonies!

Or when rising shrill and shriller, Other music dies away— Other songs grow still and stiller, Songster of the night and day!

Till—all sunk to silence round thee— Not a whisper—not a word— Not a leaf-fall to confound thee— Breathless all—thou only heard.

Tell me, thou who failest never, Minstrel of the songs of spring! Did the world see ages ever, When thy voice forgot to sing?

Is there in your woodland history Any Homer, whom ye read? Has your music aught of mystery? Has it measure, cliff, and creed?

Have ye teachers who instruct ye— Checking each ambitious strain— Learned parrots to conduct ye, When ye wander back again?

Smiling at my dreams, I see thee, Nature, in her chainless will, Did not fetter thee, but free thee— Pour thy hymns of rapture still!

Plumed in pomp, and pride prodigious, Lo! the gaudy peacock rears; But his grating voice so hideous, Shocks the soul and grates the ears.

Finches may be trained to follow Notes which dexterous arts combine; But those notes sound vain and hollow When compared, sweet bird, with thine.

Classic themes no longer courting— Ancient tongues I’ll cast away, And with nightingales disporting, Sing the wild and woodland lay! _Anonymous Translation._ LOOTS, _a living Dutch Poet_.

NEST OF THE NIGHTINGALE.

Up this green woodland side let’s softly rove, And list the nightingale; she dwells just here. Hush! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear The noise might drive her from her home of love; For here I’ve heard her many a merry year— At morn, at eve—nay, all the live-long day, As though she lived on song. This very spot, Just where the old-man’s-beard all wildly trails Rude arbors o’er the road, and stops the way; And where the child its blue-bell flowers hath got, Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails; There have I hunted like a very boy, Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn, To find her nest, and see her feed her young, And vainly did I many hours employ:

All seemed as hidden as a thought unborn; And where those crumpling fern-leaves ramp among The hazel’s under-boughs, I’ve nestled down And watch’d her while she sang; and her renown Hath made me marvel that so famed a bird Should have no better dress than russet brown. Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy, And feathers stand on end, as ’twere with joy; And mouth wide open to release her heart Of its out-sobbing songs. The happiest part Of summer’s fame she shared, for so to me Did happy fancy shapen her employ. But if I touched a bush, or scarcely stirred, All in a moment stopt. I watched in vain: The timid bird had left the hazel bush, And oft in distance hid to sing again. Lost in a wilderness of listening leaves, Rich ecstasy would pour its luscious strain, Till envy spurred the emulating thrush To start less wild and scarce inferior songs; For while of half the year care him bereaves, To damp the ardor of his speckled breast, The nightingale to summer’s life belongs, And naked trees, and winter’s nipping wrongs Are strangers to her music, and her rest. Her joys are ever green—her world is wide! Hark! there she is, as usual; let’s be hush; For in this black-thorn clump, if rightly guessed, Her curious house is hidden. Part aside Those hazel branches in a gentle way, And stoop right cautious 'neath the rustling boughs, For we will have another search to-day, And hunt this fern-strewn thorn-clump round and round; And where this reeded wood-grass idly bows, We’ll wade right through; it is a likely nook. In such like spots, and often on the ground They’ll build, where rude boys never think to look. Ay! as I live! her secret nest is here, Upon this white-thorn stump! * * * We will not plunder music of its dower, Nor turn this spot of happiness to thrall, For melody seems hid in every flower That blossoms near thy home. These blue-bells all Seem bowing with the beautiful in song; And gaping cuckoo-flower, with spotted leaves,

Seems blushing of the singing it has heard. How curious is the nest! No other bird Uses such loose materials, or weaves Its dwelling in such spots! Dead oaken leaves Are placed without, and velvet moss within; And little scraps of grass, and scant and spare, What hardly seem materials, down and hair; For from men’s haunts she nothing seems to win. JOHN CLARE.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

SONNET.

Sweet bird, that sing’st away the early hours Of winters past or coming—void of care, Well pleased with delights which present are; Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers; To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers, Thou thy Creator’s goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare; A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs, Attir’d in sweetness, sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth’s turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverent eye and thought to heaven? WILLIAM DRUMMOND, 1585–1649.

THE LARK.

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings, And Phœbus 'gins arise— His steeds to water at those springs, On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes; With every thing that pretty bin— My lady sweet, arise! W. SHAKSPEARE.

FROM THE “COMPLETE ANGLER.”

At first the lark, when she means to rejoice, to cheer herself and those that hear her, she then quits the earth, and sings as she ascends higher into the air; and having ended her heavenly employment, grows

then mute and sad, to think she must descend to the dull earth, which she would not touch but for necessity,

How do the blackbird and throssel, with their melodious voices, bid welcome to the cheerful spring, and in their fixed mouths warble forth such ditties as no art or instrument can reach to!

Nay, the smaller birds also do the like in their particular seasons, as, namely, the laverock, the titlark, the little linnet, and the honest robin, that loves mankind, both alive and dead.

But the nightingale—another of my airy creatures—breathes such sweet, loud music out of her little instrumental throat, that it might make mankind to think miracles are not ceased. He that at midnight, when the very laborer sleeps securely, should hear—as I have very often—the clear airs, the sweet descants, the natural rising and falling, the doubling and redoubling of her voice, might well be lifted above earth, and say, “Lord, what music hast thou provided for the saints in heaven, when thou afforded bad men such music on earth?”

IZAAK WALTON, 1593–1683.

TO THE SKYLARK.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wer’t, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart 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 setting sun, O’er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied 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.

Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, 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, Singing hymns unbidden, 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-wing’d thieves.

Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers,

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, Sailing o’er the landscape dark, Mute, on a sudden, is the lark; But when gleams the sun again O’er the pearl-besprinkled plain, And from behind his watery vail Looks through the thin descending hail; She mounts, and, lessening to the sight, Salutes the blithe return of light, And high her tuneful track pursues Through the rainbow’s melting hues. THOMAS WARTON, 1728–1790.

THE SKYLARK.

FROM “THE FARMER’S BOY.”

When music waking, speaks the skylark nigh, Just starting from the corn, he cheerly sings, And trusts with conscious pride his downy wings; Still louder breathes, and in the face of day Mounts up, and calls on Giles to mark his way. Close to his eyes his hat he instant bends, And forms a friendly telescope, that lends Just aid enough to dull the glaring light, And place the wandering bird before his sight, That oft beneath a light cloud sweeps along, Lost for a while, yet pours the varied song. The eye still follows, and the cloud moves by; Again he stretches up the clear blue sky.

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 head rested lone on the gray moorland stone, My eyes wandered starward from cloud unto cloud.

There wandered my eyes, but my thoughts onward passed, Far, far beyond cloud-track or tempests’ career; At times I hummed songs, and the desolate waste Was the first the sad chimes of my spirit to hear.

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! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place— O to abide in the desert with thee! Wild is thy lay, and loud, Far in the downy cloud; Love gives it energy—love gave it birth: Where, on thy dewy wing— 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 cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow’s rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Emblem of happiness, 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 All independent of the leafy spring.

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; A privacy of glorious light is thine; Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with rapture more divine; Type of the wise who soar but never roam; Twin to the kindred points of Heaven and home. WORDSWORTH.

LINES.

So when the lark, poor bird! afar espyeth Her yet unfeathered children, whom to save She strives in vain—slain by the fatal scythe, Which from the meadow her green locks do shave, That their warm nest is now become their grave. The woful mother up to heaven springs, And all about her plaintive notes she flings, And their untimely fate most pitifully sings. GILES FLETCHER, 1588–1623.

[Illustration: [Pastoral Scene]]