Sorrows mingled with contents, prepare Love only reigns in death; though art JOHN FORD. [From "The Broken Heart."] The Past. THIS Common field, this little brook, Oftener than on the heavens blue? Since last I stood upon this plank, And watched the pebbles as they sank? It cometh back;—So blithe, so bright, As though but one short winter's night Had darkened o'er the world since then; It is the same clear dazzling scene:- Yet Nature surely never ranges, Ne'er quits her gay and flowery crown; Then, why should not the grass be green? When I was here an urchin strong? So be it! I have lost,- and won! For, once, the past was poor to me; The future dim; and though the sun Shed life and strength, and I was free, I felt not-knew no grateful pleasure: All seemed but as the common measure: But Now-the experienced Spirit old Turns all the leaden past to gold! BARRY CORNWALL. Home-thoughts, from Abroad. I. OH! to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf II. And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows- The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, ROBERT BROWNING. Ode to a Nightingale. I. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, II. O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, III. Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, IV. 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, Clustered 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. V. 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 |