Or, on that bank, feel the west wind Breathe health and plenty; please my mind, To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, And then washed off by April showers; Here, hear my kenna sing a song:
There, see a blackbird feed her young,
Or a laverock build her nest;
Here, give my weary spirits rest,
And raise my low-pitched thoughts above
Earth, or what poor mortals love.
Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise
Of princes' courts, I would rejoice;
Or, with my Bryan and a book,
Loiter long days near Shawford brook;
There sit by him, and eat my meat;
There see the sun both rise and set;
There bid good morning to next day;
There meditate my time away;
And angle on; and beg to have
A quiet passage to a welcome grave.
IZAAK WALTON.
The Bobolink.
BOBOLINK! that in the meadow,
Or beneath the orchard's shadow,
Keepest up a constant rattle
Joyous as my children's prattle,
Welcome to the north again!
Welcome to mine ear thy strain,
Welcome to mine eye the sight
Of thy buff, thy black and white.
Brighter plumes may greet the sun
By the banks of Amazon;
Sweeter tones may weave the spell
Of enchanting Philomel ;
But the tropic bird would fail,
And the English nightingale,
If we should compare their worth
With thine endless, gushing mirth.
When the ides of May are past, June and Summer nearing fast, While from depths of blue above Comes the mighty breath of love,
Calling out each bud and flower
With resistless, secret power,
Waking hope and fond desire,
Kindling the erotic fire,
Filling youths' and maidens' dreams
With mysterious, pleasing themes;
Then, amid the sunlight clear
Floating in the fragrant air,
Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure
By thy glad ecstatic measure.
A single note, so sweet and low,
Like a full heart's overflow,
Forms the prelude; but the strain
Gives no such tone again,
For the wild and saucy song
Leaps and skips the notes among,
With such quick and sportive play,
Ne'er was madder, merrier lay.
Gayest songster of the Spring!
Thy melodies before me bring
Visions of some dream-built land,
Where, by constant zephyrs fanned,
I might walk the livelong day,
Embosomed in perpetual May.
Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows;
For thee a tempest never blows;
But when our northern Summer's o'er,
By Delaware's or Schuylkill's shore
The wild rice lifts its airy head,
And royal feasts for thee are spread.
And when the Winter threatens there,
Thy tireless wings yet own no fear,
But bear thee to more southern coasts,
Far beyond the reach of frosts.
Bobolink! still may thy gladness
Take from me all taints of sadness;
Fill my soul with trust unshaken
In that Being who has taken
Care for every living thing,
In Summer, Winter, Fall, and Spring.
THOMAS HILL.
THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
O time far off, and yet so near!
It came to her in that hushed grove,
It warbled while the wooing throve, It sang the song she loved to hear.
And now I hear its voice again,
And still its message is of peace, It sings of love that will not ceaseFor me it never sings in vain.
The Cuckoo and the Nightingale.
THE God of Love,-ah benedicite!
How mighty and how great a lord is he!
For he of low hearts can make high; of high
He can make low, and unto death bring nigh;
And hard hearts, he can make them kind and free.
Within a little time, as hath been found,
He can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound:
Them who are whole in body and in mind,
He can make sick; bind can he and unbind
All that he will have bound, or have unbound.
To tell his might my wit may not suffice;
Foolish men he can make them out of wise-
For he may do all that he will devise;
Loose livers he can make abate their vice,
And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice.
In brief, the whole of what he will he may;
Against him dare not any wight say nay;
To humble or afflict whome'er he will,
To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill;
But most his might he sheds on the eve of May.
For every true heart, gentle heart and free,
That with him is, or thinketh so to be,
Now, against May, shall have some stirring,
whether
To joy, or be it to some mourning; never,
At other time, methinks, in like degree.
For now, when they may hear the small birds' song,
And see the budding leaves the branches throng,
This unto their remembrance doth bring
All kinds of pleasure, mixed with sorrowing;
And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long.
And of that longing heaviness doth come,
Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and
Sick are they all for lack of their desire;
And thus in May their hearts are set on fire, So that they burn forth in great martyrdom.
In sooth, I speak from feeling; what though now
Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow;
Yet have I felt of sickness through the May,
Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every day,-
How hard, alas! to bear, I only know.
Such shaking doth the fever in me keep
Through all this May, that I have little sleep;
And also 'tis not likely unto me,
That any living heart should sleepy be,
In which Love's dart its fiery point doth steep.
But tossing lately on a sleepless bed,
I of a token thought, which lovers heed: How among them it was a common tale, That it was good to hear the nightingale Ere the vile cuckoo's note be uttered.
And then I thought anon, as it was day,
I gladly would go somewhere to essay
If I perchance a nightingale might hear;
For yet had I heard none, of all that year;
And it was then the third night of the May.
As soon as I a glimpse of day espied,
No longer would I in my bed abide;
But straightway to a wood, that was hard by,
Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly,
And held the pathway down by a brook-side;
Till to a lawn I came, all white and green;
I in so fair a one had never been:
The ground was green, with daisy powdered over;
Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover,
All green and white, and nothing else was seen.
There sat I down among the fair, fresh flowers, And saw the birds come tripping from their bowers,
Where they had rested them all night; and they, Who were so joyful at the light of day,
Began to honor May with all their powers.
Well did they know that service all by rote; And there was many and many a lovely noteSome, singing loud, as if they had complained; Some with their notes another manner feigned; And some did sing all out with the full throat.
The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake : Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake, And, prithee, let us that can sing, dwell here; For every wight eschews thy song to hear, Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make.
They pruned themselves, and made themselves What! quoth she then, what is't that ails thee
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