Thy golden harp shall then proclaim And dwell on the immortal theme, In songs still new, above. REV. DUNCAN GRANT. THE SKYLARK. IRD of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumber less, Light be thy matin o'er woodland and lea! Blest is thy dwelling-place! Oh, 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 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! Then when the gloaming comes, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Blest is thy dwelling-place! Oh, to abide in the desert with thee! HOGG THE SKYLARK. AIL to thee, blithe spirit! 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 sunken 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. 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, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden 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 aerial 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-winged thieves: Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard, Praises 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. With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came 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? Better than all measures Of delightful sound, That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness The world would listen then, as I am listening now. SHELLEY. THE SKYLARK. THEREAL Minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky! Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 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 mightst thou seem, proud privilege! to sing All independent of the leafy Spring. Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; WORSWORTH THE SKYLARK. IRD of the free and fearless wing! Up! up! and greet the sun's first ray, With thy enlivening matin lay! I love to track thy heavenward way Songster of sky and cloud! to thee Hath Heaven a joyous lot assigned; Thou art the first to leave behind, And, soaring as on wings of wind, To spring where light and life have birth. Bird of the sweet and taintless hour! |