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ODE TO THE CUCKOO.
HATTbobeauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of
And woods thy we ome sing.
Thy certain voice we hear :
Or mark the rolling year ?
I hail the time of flowers,
From birds among the bowers.
To pull the primrose gay,
And imitates thy lay.
Thou fliest thy vocal vale,
Another Spring to hail.
Thy sky is ever clear ;
No Winter in thy year!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
THE LADY OF THE LAKE.”]
E is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest; Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest. The font, reappearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow; But to us comes no cheering,
No Duncan to-morrow.
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary; But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory; The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are serest, But our flower was in flushing
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi,?
Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and for ever!
1 Coronach, funeral song.
T is not beautie I demand,
A chrystall brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand,
Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair.
Tell me not of
eyes, Your lips, that seem on roses fed, Your breastes, where Cupid tumbling lies,
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed,
A bloomie pair of vermeil cheeks,
Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, A breath that softer musick speaks
Than summer winds a-wooing flow'rs.
These are but gauds : nay, what are lips ?
Corall beneath the ocean-stream, Whose brink when your adventurer slips,
Full oft he perisheth on them.
And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft
That wave hot youth to fields of blood ? Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft,
Do Greece or Ilium any good ?
Eyes can with baleful ardour burn;
Poison can breath, that erst perfum'd; There's many a white hand holds an urn,
With lovers' hearts to dust consumed.
For chrystall brows, there's nought within ;
They are but empty cells for pride; He who the Syren's hair would win,
Is mostly strangled in the tide.
Give me, instead of Beautie's bust,
A tender heart, a loyall mind,
Yet never link'd with error find,
One in whose gentle bosom I
Could pour my secret heart of woes,
That hides his murmurs in the rose,
My earthlie comforter! whose love
So indefeasible might be,
Hers could not stay, for sympathy.
DREAM'D that, as I wander'd by the way,
Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring, And gentle odours led my steps astray,
Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring, Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kiss'd it, and then fled, as thou mightest in
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets ;
Daisies, those pearld Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets;
Faint oxlips ; tender bluebells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that
wets Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, When the low wind its playmate's voice it hears.
And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
may, And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
Was the bright dew yet drain’d not by the day; And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,
With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray ; And flowers azure, black, and streak’d with gold, Fairer than
And nearer to the river's trembling edge
And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
With moonlight beams of their own watery light; And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
Methought that of these visionary flowers
bound in such a way That the same hues which in their natural bowers
Were mingled or opposed, the like array Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours
Within my hand,—and then, elate and gay, I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come, That I might there present it! Oh! to whom ?