All seemed as hidden as a thought unborn; And where those crumpling fern-leaves ramp among 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. Its dwelling in such spots! Dead oaken leaves JOHN CLARE. THE NIGHTINGALE. SONNET. Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours Attir'd in sweetness, sweetly is not driven THE LARK. Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus '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, 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, 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, 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, In a palace tower, 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, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wing'd thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, 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; |