The lark lies couch'd in her grassy nest, And all bright things are away to rest: Is not your world a mournful one, And your soft breath meets not a lingering tone Take ye no joy in the day-spring's birth, And the thousand strains of the forest's mirth, Shut your sweet bells till the fawn comes out And the woodland child with a fairy shout 66 Nay, let our shadowy beauty bloom "Call it not wasted, the scent we lend "And love us as emblems, night's dewy flowers, That spring through the gloom of the darkest hours, Looking alone to heaven!" ECHO-SONG. IN thy cavern-hall, Echo! art thou sleeping? Yet one soft note borne From the shepherd's horn, Wakes thee, Echo! into music leaping! Then the woods rejoice, Then glad sounds are swelling Round thy rocky dwelling; And their sweetness fills All the hollow hills, With a thousand notes, of one life telling! Echo in my heart Thus deep thoughts are lying, Silent and apart, Buried, yet undying. Till some gentle tone Wakening haply one, Calls a thousand forth, like thee replying! Strange, sweet Echo! even like thee replying.' 1 This song is in the possession of Mr. Power. THE MUFFLED DRUM.' THE muffled drum was heard But it told them not how dear, The oaks of England waved O'er the slumbers of his race, But a pine of the Ronceval made moan When the muffled drum was heard Brief was the sorrowing there, By the stream from battle red, And tossing on its wave the plumes Of many a stately head: 1 Set to beautiful music by John Lodge, Esq. But a mother- -soon to die, And a sister-long to weep, Even then were breathing prayers for him, While the muffled drum was heard THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK. "Adieu, adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, "Higher still and higher KEATS. From the earth thou springest The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest." SHELLEY. 'MIDST the long reeds that o'er a Grecian stream Unto the faint wind sigh'd melodiously, And where the sculpture of a broken shrine Warbled his death-chant; and a poet stood Thrill to its passion. Oh! the tones were sweet, Even painfully-as with the sweetness wrung From parting love; and to the poet's thought This was their language. "Summer, I depart! O light and laughing summer, fare thee well! "And fare ye well, young flowers! Ye will not mourn! ye will shed odour still, And wave in glory, colouring every rill, Known to my youth's fresh hours. "And ye, bright founts, that lie Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep, "Will ye not send one tone Of sorrow through the pines?—one murmur low? Shall not the green leaves from your voices know That I, your child, am gone? Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell, Waves, joyous waves, flow on, and fare ye well! Ye will not mourn for me. "But thou, sweet boon, too late Pour'd on my parting breath, vain gift of song! Why comest thou thus, o'ermastering, rich and strong, In the dark hour of fate? |