Unutterable love. Sound needed none, Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank The spectacle; sensation, soul, and form All melted into him; they swallowed up His animal being; in them did he live, And by them did he live; they were his life. In such access of mind, in such high hour Of visitation from the living God, Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired. No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request; Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him; it was blessedness and love. WORDSWORTH. DOVER CLIFFS. COME on, sir; here's the place:stand still. How fearful And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eye so low! The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air, Show scarce so gross as beetles: half way down Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head: The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, Appear like mice; and yond' tall anchoring bark Diminish'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge, That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes, Cannot be heard so high:- I'll look WHENCE is it that the air so sudden clears, And all things in a moment turn so mild? Whose breath or beams have got proud Earth with child Of all the treasure that great Nature's worth, And makes her every minute to bring forth? How comes it winter is so quite forced hence And locked up under ground? That every sense Hath several objects, trees have got their heads, The fields their coats, that now the shining meads Do boast the paunce, the lily, and the rose, And every flower doth laugh as Zephyr blows? That seas are now more even than the land; The rivers run as smoothed by his hand; Only their heads are crispèd by his And crested lark, doth his division run. The yellow bees the air with murmur fill, The finches carol and the turtles bill; Whose power is this? What god? Behold a King, Whose presence maketh this perpetual spring, The glories of which spring grow in that bower, And are the marks and beauties of his power. BEN JONSON. FIRST OF MAY. WHILE from the purpling east departs The star that led the dawn, Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts, For May is on the lawn. A quickening hope, a freshening glee, Foreran the expected power, Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree, Shakes off that pearly shower. All Nature welcomes her whose sway Tempers the year's extremes; Who scattereth lustres o'er noonday, Like morning's dewy gleams; While mellow warble, sprightly trill, The tremulous heart excite; And hums the balmy air to still The balance of delight. Time was, blest Power! when youths and maids At peep of dawn would rise, And wander forth, in forest glades Thy birth to solemnize. Though mute the song-to grace the rite Untouched the hawthorn bough, Thy spirit triumphs o'er the slight; Man changes, but not thou! Thy feathered lieges bill and wings Awake to silent joy: Queen art thou still for each gay plant Where the slim wild deer roves; And served in depths where fishes haunt Their own mysterious groves. AND if, on this thy natal morn, The pole, from which thy name Hath not departed, stands forlorn Of song and dance and game, Still from the village-green a vow Aspires to thee addrest, Wherever peace is on the brow, Or love within the breast. Yes! where love nestles thou canst teach The soul to love the more; Hearts also shall thy lessons reach That never loved before. Stript is the haughty one of pride, The bashful freed from fear, While rising, like the ocean-tide, In flows the joyous year. Hush, feeble lyre! weak words, refuse The service to prolong! To yon exulting thrush the Muse Intrusts the imperfect song; His voice shall chant, in accents clear, Throughout the livelong day, Till the first silver star appear, The sovereignty of May. WORDSWORTH. CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING. GET up, get up, for shame; the blooming Morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colors through the air; Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east, Above an hour since, yet you not drest, THE BIRDS OF KILLING WORTH. Ir was the season when through all the land The merle and mavis build, and building sing Those lovely lyrics written by His hand Whom Saxon Cædmon calls the Blithe-heart King; When on the boughs the purple buds expand, The banners of the vanguard of the Spring; And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap, And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee; The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be; And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd, Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said, "Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread!" Slowly descending, with majestic Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart To speak out what was in him, clear and strong, Alike regardless of their smile or frown, And quite determined not to be laughed down. "Plato, anticipating the reviewers, From his republic banished without pity The poets: in this little town of yours, You put to death, by means of a committee, The ballad-singers and the troubadours, The street-musicians of the heavenly city, The birds, who make sweet music for us all In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. "The thrush, that carols at the dawn of day From the green steeples of the piny wood; The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay, Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, Flooding with melody the neighborhood; Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song, "You slay them all! and wherefore? For the gain Of a scant handful, more or less, of wheat, Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, Scratched up at random by industrious feet Searching for worm or weevil after rain, Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet As are the songs these uninvited guests Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. |