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The quiet taper burns,
And makes thy casement bright, And soft thy shadow falls
Between me and the light; I gaze as on a shrine
My heart would bend before ; My couch had seen no rest,
Had I not seen thy door.
The night, as if to breathe,
Her starry curtain parts; The very air seems faint
With breath of lovers' hearts : Some spirit robes the earth
In light that heaven wore ; Or is that light thine own;
And is that heaven thy door ?
TO THE LARK.
(From Swain's English Melodies.)
Wherefore is thy flight so free ? Singing-soaring-day by day; Thou’rt a bird of low degree !
Tirral-la ! Scarcely shelter'd from the mould,
We thy humble nest can see; Wherefore is thy song so bold, Little bird of low degree?
Humbly though my dwelling lie,
Next door neighbour to the earth; Rank, though lifted ne'er so high, Cannot soar like humble worth :
When these birds of loftier airs
Tirral-la! Tirral-la !
Give me but a summer morn,
Sweet with dew and golden light,
Where the path of freedom lies,
Tirral-la! Tirral-Ia !
R. CLAY, PRINTER, LONDON.