pde

TO A NIGHTINGALE.

JOHN

KEATS.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk.
"Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness ;
Where thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,

In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
Oh, for a draught of vintage, that hath been

Cooled a long age in the deep-delvèd earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green,

Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth! Oh, for a beaker full of the warm SouthFull of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim

And purple-stainèd mouth ; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

And with thee fade away into the forest dim Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never knownThe weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groanWhere palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs ; Where youth grows pale and spectre thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs ;
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

:

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.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But in embalmèd 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 covered 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,
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath ;
Now more than ever seems it rich 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 death, 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 Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery 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.
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?

TO A WATERFOWL.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

WHITHER, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink

On the chafed ocean side ?

There is a power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast-
The desert and illimitable air,-

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,

Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,

Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,

And shall not soon depart.

He, who from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

“Two men bent up into the Temple to pray."-St. Luke xviii. 10.

Two went to pray? O rather say,
One went to brag, the other to pray.
One stands up close, and treads on high,
Where the other dares not bend his eye.

One nearer to God's altar trod,
The other to the altar's God.

RICHARD CRASIIAN.

WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she

sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell-
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined,
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each—for madness ruled the hour-
Would prove his own expressive power.
First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewildered laid, And back recoiled, he knew not why,

E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next, Anger rushed : his eyes on fire,

In lightnings owned his secret stings: In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings. With woeful measures, wan Despair,

Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled; A solemn, strange, and mingled air,

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.