I remember, I remember, Those flowers made of light! I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing; And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing: My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow! I remember, I remember, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heav'n ODE. OH! well may poets make a fuss My heart is all at pant to rest In greenwood shades,-my eyes detest This endless meal of brick! What joy have I in June's return? But faint the flagging zephyr springs, My sun his daily course renews His setting shows more tamely still, Oh! but to hear the milk-maid blithe, The dewy meads among! My grass is of that sort,―alas! That makes no hay, call'd sparrow-grass By folks of vulgar tongue! Oh! but to smell the woodbine sweet! I think of cowslip-cups, but meet For meadow buds, I get a whiff How tenderly Rousseau review'd My rose blooms on a gown! Where are ye, birds! that blithely wing From tree to tree, and gaily sing Or mourn in thickets deep? My cuckoo has some ware to sell, The watchmen is my Philomel, My blackbird is a sweep! Where are ye, linnet! lark! and thrush! Where are ye, early-purling streams, From shambles, or reflect the stains Of calimanco-dyes. Sweet are the little brooks that run Where are ye, pastoral, pretty sheep, Alas! instead of harmless crooks, And skin-not shear-the lambs. The pipe whereon, in olden day, All rural things are vilely mock'd, Shades-vernal shades! where wine is sold! And for a turfy bank, behold An Ingram's rustic chair! Where are ye, London meads and bow'rs, Wherein the zephyr wons? Alas! Moor Fields are fields no more! No pastoral scene procures me peace; No cot set round with trees: No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks; With brokers, not with bees. Oh! well may poets make a fuss My heart is all at pant to rest In greenwood shades,—my eyes detest BALLAD. It was not in the winter It was the time of roses, We plucked them as we passed ! That churlish season never frowned Oh no,-the world was newly crowned 'Twas twilight, and I bade you go, But still you held me fast; It was the time of roses, We plucked them as we passed! What else could peer my glowing cheek That tears began to stud? And when I asked the like of love, You snatched a damask bud;— And oped it to the dainty core, It was the time of roses, We plucked them as we passed! |