« 上一页继续 »
Let the moaning music perish!
Wherefore should we strive to cherish
Sorrow, like the desert rain ?
Though we weep, we weep in vain !
They are gone together,
Haply to the summer shores,-
Where the bright and cloudless weather
Shineth, and for ever pours
Music with the flooding light,
And the night doth chase the day,
And the morn doth chase the night,
Like a starry fawn away!
They are gone—where pleasure reigns
Sinless on the golden plains,
Far above the scathing thunder,
Far above the storms and jars
Of earth, and live delighted under
The bright silence of the stars !
Therefore let the music die,-
Thoughtless hope and sorrow fly:
They are happy,-happier than
We who, in the mask of man,
Pour our unavailing tears
Over Beauty's number'd years!
AWAKE!—the starry midnight hour
Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight;
In its own sweetness sleeps the flower,
And the doves lie hushed in deep delight:
Look forth, my love, for love's sweet sake !
Awake !-soft dews will soon arise
From daisied mead, and thorny brake;
Then, sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes,
And like the tender morning break!
Dawn forth, my love, for love's sweet sake!
Awake !-within the musk-rose bower
I watch, pale flower of love, for thee;
Ah, come and show the starry hour
What wealth of love thou hidest from me!
Show all thy love, for love's sweet sake!
Awake !-ne'er heed, though listening night
Steal music from thy silver voice;
Uncloud thy beauty rare and bright,
And bid the world and me rejoice!
Awake! awake !
She comes, at last, for love's sweet sake!
We are born; we laugh, we weep,
We love, we droop, we die !
Ah! wherefore do we laugh, or weep?
Why do we live, or die?
Who knows that secret deep ?-
Alas, not I!
Why doth the violet spring
Unseen by human eye ?
Why do the radiant seasons bring
Sweet thoughts that quickly fly?
Why do our fond hearts cling
To things that die ?
We toil—through pain and wrong ;
We fight, and fly;
We love, we lose--and then, ere long,
Stone-dead we lie.
O life ! is all thy song
Endure and-die ?"
TO A WOUNDED SINGING BIRD.
Poor singer! hath the fowler's gun,
Or the sharp winter done thee harm? We'll lay thee gently in the sun,
And breathe on thee, and keep thee warm; Perhaps some human kindness still May make amends for human ill.
We'll take thee in, and nurse thee well,
And save thee from the winter wild, Till summer fall on field and fell,
And thou shalt be our feather'd child; And tell us all thy pain and wrong, When thou canst speak again in song.
Fear not, nor tremble, little bird,
We'll use thee kindly now;
And sure there's in a friendly word
An accent even thou shouldst know;
For kindness which the heart doth teach
Disdaineth all peculiar speech:
'Tis common to the bird and brute,
To fallen man, to angel bright; And sweeter 'tis than lonely lute
Heard in the air at night; Divine and universal tongue, Whether by bird or spirit sung!
But, hark! is that a sound we hear
Come chirping from its throat,
Faint, short—but weak—and very clear,
And like a little grateful note?
Another ? ha! look where it lies,-
It shivers,-gasps,—is still,—it dies !
'Tis dead! 'tis dead! and all our care
Is useless. Now, in vain
The mother's wo doth pierce the air,
Calling her nestling bird again!
All's vain; the singer's heart is cold,
Its eye is dim,-its fortune told !
COME, all ye feathery people of mid air,
Who sleep ʼmidst rocks, or on the mountain summits
Lie down with the wild winds; and ye who build
Your homes amidst green leaves by grottos cool;
And ye, who on the flat sands hoard your eggs
For suns to ripen, come! Ophænix rare !
If death hath spared, or philosophic search
Permit thee still to own thy haunted nest,
Perfect Arabian,-lonely nightingale !
Dusk creature, who art silent all day long,
But when pale eve unseals thy clear throat, loosest
Thy twilight music on the dreaming boughs,
Until they waken; and thou, cuckoo bird,
Who art the ghost of sound, having no shape
Material, but dost wander far and near,
Like untouch'd echo whom the woods deny
Sight of her love, come all to my slow charm!
Come thou, sky-climbing bird, wakener of morn,
Who springest like a thought unto the sun,
And from his golden floods dost gather wealth
(Epithalamium and Pindarique song),
And with it enrich our ears; come all to me,
Beneath the chamber where my lady lies,
And, in your several musics, whisper-Love!