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-wingéd 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 Praise of love or wine, That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphal 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 cannot be : Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. THE SKYLARK. 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: 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; That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 13 To the Cuckoo. HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of Spring! Now heaven repairs thy rural seat, Soon as the daisy decks the green, Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, The school-boy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, thy most curious voice to hear, And imitates thy lay. What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fliest thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands, Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year r! Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Attendants on the Spring. JOHN LOGAN. Yes! where are the cities Like sparks from the fire! The splendor of Rome, But thou art almighty- Twin-brother of Time! As the stars first beheld thee, But hold! when thy surges JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA. L The Beautiful River. IKE a foundling in slumber, the summer-day lay On the crimsoning threshold of even, And I thought that the glow through the azure-arched way Was a glimpse of the coming of Heaven. |