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Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,

And haply the queen-moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry fays;

But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;

And mid-May's eldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy !

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain-
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for earth, immortal bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown;
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that ofttimes hath

Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam,
Of perilous seas, in faëry lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.

SONGS OF NIGHTINGALES.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: Do I wake or sleep?

217

TO A NIGHTINGALE.

'Tis night! awake, awake!

And from thy leafy covert raise thy voice!
Pour out thy soul of melody and make
The silent night rejoice!

Call to the echoes, call

To the far woods that steep'd in moonlight lie;
Call to the quiet sea, the desolate hall,
And each one shall reply.

From out thy leafy boughs

Thy voice is as the trumpet's through the wild,
Stirring all hearts; which doth from rest arouse
Mother and sleeping child.

Yet not with sense of dread

Peasants are gathering in the midnight hours,
Whilst high-born maidens go with stately tread
Down paths of moonlit flowers.

The gentle poet speeds

Forth in the dewy hush of night, elate
With song and love, and his sweet fancy feeds,
Hailing thee, his own mate.

Pour forth, pour forth thy strain

Until the blue depths of the heavens are fill'd;
Until the memory of thy secret pain

With thine own song is still'd.

Oh! pour, as thou didst ever,

Thy tide of song forth from thy hidden tree,
Like unspent waters of a viewless river
Feeding the mighty sea!

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KEATS.

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Then from his dreamy mood,

A marvel to himself, the poet sprung,

In spiritual might, like one with youth renew'd,
And smote his lyre and sung.

Oh! as thou wast to him
Touching his spirit with ethereal fire,
Be priestess unto us, and our cold, dim,
And soulless clay inspire!

Alas! it were unjust

To deem thou couldst transmute our iron age:
Man has bow'd down his spirit to the dust,
Has sold his heritage !

We come forth in the night,

In the pure dews and silvery light of heaven;
But in our bosoms lies the deadening blight,
The world's corrupting leaven.

Ay, sing, thou rapturous bird;

And though my spirit bear the impress of ill,
Yet, from the holy feeling thou hast stirr'd,
Thy power remaineth still.

MARY HOWITT.

Thomas Haywood calls upon the birds to wish his love "good-morrow,"

Pack clouds away and welcome day
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft,
To give my love good-morrow!
Wings from the wind, to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing.
To give my love good-morrow!

Wake from thy nest, robin-redbreast,
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each hill let music shrill
Give my fair love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow;
You pretty elves, among yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow!

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But whate'er a bird is,
Whate'er loves-it has delight,
In the joyous song it sings;
In the liquid air it cleaves;
In the sunshine, in the shower;
In the nest it weaves.

Do we wake, or do we sleep;

Go our fancies in a crowd

After many a dull care,
Birds are singing loud!

Sing then linnet; sing then wren;
Merle and mavis sing your fill;
And thou, rapturous skylark,
Sing and soar up from the hill!
Sing, O nightingale, and pour
Out for us sweet fancies new;
Singing for us, birds;

We will sing of you!

MARY HOWITT.

Mr. Main, in the "Magazine of Natural History," observes, that "no bird sings with more method than the lark; there is an overture performed, vivace crescendo, while the singer ascends; when at the full height, the song becomes moderato, and distinctly divided into short passages, each repeated three or four times over, like a fantasia, in the same key and tune. If there be any wind, he rises perpendicularly by bounds, and afterwards poises himself with breast opposed to it. If calm, he ascends in spiral circles; in horizontal circles during the principal part of his song, and zigzagly downwards during the performance of the finale. Sometimes, after descending about half-way, he ceases to sing, and drops with the velocity of an arrow to the ground. Those acquainted with the song of the skylark, can tell, without looking at them, whether the birds be ascending or stationary in the air, or on their descent; so different is the style of the song in each case. In the first, there is an expression of ardent impatience; in the second, an andante composure, in which rests of a bar at a time frequently occur; and in the last, a graduated sinking of the strains, often touching the subdominant before the final close. The time and number of the notes often correspond with the vibration of the wings; and though they sometimes sing while on the ground, as they are seen

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