Oh for a draught of vintage, Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burned mirth! Oh for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth, That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim. Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret; Here, where men sit and hear each other groanWhere palsy shakes a few sad, last gray hairs— Where youth grows pale, and specter-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow, And leaden-eyed despairs; Where beauty can not keep her lustrous eyes, Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of poesy, Though the dull train perplexes and retards; Already with thee tender is the night, And haply the queen-moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I can not see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, And mid-May's oldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of bees on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To cease upon the midnight, with no pain, In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain- Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird! Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn: The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell, To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music-do I wake or sleep? JOHN KEATS, 1796-1820. THE NIGHTINGALE. FROM THE DUTCH. Prize thou the nightingale, Who soothes thee with his tale, And wakes the woods around; A singing feather, he-a winged and wandering sound: Whose tender carroling Sets all ears listening Unto that living lyre, Whence flow the airy notes his ecstasies inspire; Whose shrill, capricious song, With many a careless tone Music of thousand tongues, formed by one tongue alone. O charming creature rare, Thou art all song-thy breast Thrills for one month o' th' year-is tranquil all the rest. Thee wondrous we may call Most wondrous this of all, That such a tiny throat Should wake so loud a sound, and pour so loud a note. MARIA TESSELSCHADE VISSCHER-Born in the 16th century. THE MOTHER BIRD. SIMILE FROM "DIVINA COMMEDIA." Like as the bird who on her nest all night Had rested, darkling with her tender brood, To gaze on their dear looks, and bring them food: The mute suspense that filled her wistful eye, DANTE ALIGHIERI, 1265-1321. THE MOTHER NIGHTINGALE. FROM THE SPANISH. I have seen a nightingale, On a sprig of thyme bewail, Seeing the dear nest, which was By a laborer. I heard, For this outrage, the poor bird Say a thousand mournful things One while, in a sad, sweet note, |