That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates As he were fearful, that an April night In wood and thicket over the wide grove And murmurs musical and swift jug jug And one low piping sound more sweet than allStirring the air with such an harmony, That should you close your eyes, you might almost Forget it was not day. A most gentle Maid Who dwelleth in her hospitable home Hard by the Castle, and at latest eve, (Even like a Lady vow'd and dedicate To something more than nature in the grove) On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze, 2 And to that motion tune his wanton song, Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve, And now for our dear homes.-That strain again! Full fain it would delay me! My dear Babe, Who, capable of no articulate sound, Mars all things with his imitative lisp, How he would place his hand beside his ear, And bid us listen! And I deem it wise To make him Nature's playmate. He knows well The evening star and once when he awoke In most distressful mood (some inward pain Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream) I hurried with him to our orchard plot, And he beholds the moon, and hush'd at once Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tears Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! It is a father's tale. But if that Heaven Well Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up |