The little nightingale sits singing aye
On leafy spray,
And in her fitful strain doth run
A thousand and a thousand changes,
With voice that ranges
Through every sweet division.
April, it is when thou dost come again,
That love is fain
With gentlest breath the fires to wake,
That covered up and slumbering lay,
Through many a day,
When winter's chill our veins did slake.
Sweet month, thou seest at this jocund prime
Of the spring-time,
The hives pour out their lusty young,
And hearest the yellow bees that ply,
With laden thigh,
Murmuring the flowery wilds among.
May shall with pomp his wavy wealth unfold,
His fruits of gold,
His fertilising dews, that swell
In manna on each spike and stem,
And, like a gem,
Red honey in the waxen cell.
Who will, may praise him; but my voice shall be,
Sweet month, for thee;
Thou that to her dost owe thy name,
Who saw the sea-wave's foamy tide
Swell and divide,
Whence forth to life and light she came.
In merry spring-tide,
When to woo his bride
The nightingale comes again,
Thy boughs among,
He warbles the song
That lightens a lover's pain.
'Mid thy topmost leaves,
His nest he weaves
Of moss and the satin fine,
Where his callow brood
Shall chirp at their food,
Secure from each hand but mine.
Gentle hawthorn, thrive,
And for ever alive
Mayst thou blossom as now in thy prime;
By the wind unbroke,
And the thunder-stroke,
Unspoiled by the axe or time!
WHY dost thou tremble, peasant, say,
Before the men who empires sway?
Who soon will, shadowy sprites, be led
To swell the number of the dead?
Know'st thou not that all must go
To the gloomy realms below?
And that an imperial ghost
Must no less the Stygian coast
Visit, than the humble shade
Of him who plies the woodman's trade?
Courage, tiller of the ground!
Those who hurl war's thunder round
Will not seek their last abode
In arms, as when the battle glowed.
Naked, like thee, shall they depart;
Nor will the hauberk, sword, or dart,
Avail them more, when they shall flee,
Than thy rough ploughshare shall to thee.
Not more just Rhadamanthus cares
For the mail the warrior wears,
Than for the staff with which the swain
Urges on the glowing train;
By him with equal eye are seen
Thy dusty raiment, rude and mean,
And purpled robes of Tyrian hue,
Enwrought with gems to charm the view,
Or all the costly vestments spread
Around the forms of monarchs dead.
OH! fools of fools, and mortal fools,
Who prize so much what Fortune gives;
Say, is there aught man owns or rules
In this same earth whereon he lives?
What do his proper rights embrace,
Save the fair gifts of Nature's grace?
If from you, then, by Fortune's spite,
The goods you deem your own be torn,
No wrong is done the while, but right;
For you had nought when you were born.
Then pass the dark-brown hours of night
No more in dreaming how you may
Best load your chests with golden freight;
Crave nought beneath the moon, I pray,
From Paris even to Pampelune,
Saving alone such simple boon
As needful is for life below.
Enough if fame your name adorn,
And you to earth with honour go;
For you had nought when you were born.
When all things were for common use-
Apples, all blithesome fruits of trees,
Nuts, honey, and each gum and juice,
Both man and woman too could please.
Strife never vexed these meals of old:
Be patient, then, of heat and cold;
Esteem not Fortune's favours sure;
And of her gifts when you are shorn,
With moderate grief your loss endure;
For you had nought when you were born.
If Fortune does you any spite
Should even the coat be from you torn-
Pray, blame her not—it is her right;
For you had nought when you were born.
THE WILD-FIRES.
Он, summer eve, and village peace,
Clear skies, sweet odours, gushing streams!
Ye blest my childhood's simple dreams;
To cheer my age, oh do not cease!
World-wearied, here I love to dwell,
For even these merry wild-fires tell
Of youth and sweet simplicity.
Oft did my heart with terror swell
As from their dance I wont to fly.
I've lost that blissful ignorance;
Dance, merry wild-fires, dance, dance.
On wakeful nights the tale went round
Of Jack-a-lantern, cunning, cruel,
With watch-fires of no earthly fuel,
Guardian of treasures under ground.
They told of goblins, unblest
powers,
Ghosts, sorcerers, and mysterious hours,
Of dragons huge that ever flitted
Around all dark and ancient towers:
Such tales my easy faith admitted.
Age hath dispelled my youthful trance;
Dance, pretty wild-fires, dance, dance.
Scarce ten years old, one winter night,
Bewildered on the lonely swamp,
I saw the wild-fire trim his lamp;
"It is my grandame's cheerful light-
A pretty cake she has for me,"
I said, and ran with infant glee.
A shepherd filled my soul with dread;
"Oh foolish boy, the lamp you see
Lights up the revels of the dead."
Dispelled is now my youthful trance:
Dance, merry wild-fires, dance, dance.
Love-stirred, at sixteen once I stole
By the old curate's lonely mound :
The wild-fires danced his grave around:
I paused to bless the curate's soul.
From regions of the slumbering dead,
Methought the aged curate said,
"Alas! unhappy reprobate,
So soon hath beauty turned thy head!" That night I feared the frowns of fate. Still let the voice my ear entrance; Dance, merry wild-fires, dance, dance.
Now, from such pleasing errors free,
I feel the chilling touch of time:
The visions of my early prime
Have bowed to stern reality.
But oh! I loved fair nature more,
Ere I was taught the pedant's lore.
The dear delusions of my youth,
Which bound my heart in days of yore,
Have fled before the torch of truth.
Dearest to me my youthful trance;
Dance, merry wild-fires, dance, dance.
BE faithful still, thou poor dear coat of mine!
We, step for step, are both becoming old.
Ten years these hands have brushed that nap of thine,
And Socrates did never more, I hold.
When to fresh tear and wear the time to be
Shall force thy sore-thinned texture to submit,
Be philosophic, and resist like me:
Mine ancient friend, we must not sunder yet.
Full well I mind, for I forget not much,
The day that saw thee first upon me put:
My birthday 'twas, and as a crowning touch
Unto my pride, my friends all praised thy cut.
Thy indigence, which does me no disgrace,
Has never caused these kindly friends to flit.
Each at my fête yet shows a gladsome face :
Mine ancient friend, we must not sunder yet.
A goodly darn I on thy skirts espy,
And thereby hangs a sweet remembrance still.
Feigning one eve from fond Lisette to fly,
She held by thee to balk my seeming will.
The tug was followed by a grievous rent,
And then her side of course I could not quit:
Two days Lisette on that vast darning spent:
Mine ancient friend, we must not sunder yet.
Have e'er I made thee reek with musky steams,
Such as your self-admiring fools exhale ?
Have I exposed thee, courting great men's beams,
To levee mock or antechamber rail?
|