Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling gra.s.s, Rain-awak'ned flowers,-- All that ever was, Joyous and clear and fresh,--thy music doth surpa.s.s.

Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal Or triumphal chant, Matched with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt-- A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain?

What fields, or waves, or mountains?

What shapes of sky or plain?

What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet, if we could scorn Hate and pride and fear, If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know; Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow The world should listen then as I am listening now.

PERCY BYSSHE Sh.e.l.lEY.

_Sir Lark and King Sun: A Parable_

"Good morrow, my lord!" in the sky alone, Sang the lark as the sun ascended his throne.

"Shine on me, my lord; I only am come, Of all your servants, to welcome you home.

I have flown right up, a whole hour, I swear, To catch the first shine of your golden hair."

"Must I thank you then," said the king, "Sir Lark, For flying so high and hating the dark?

You ask a full cup for half a thirst: Half was love of me, and half love to be first.

There's many a bird makes no such haste, But waits till I come: that's as much to my taste."

And King Sun hid his head in a turban of cloud, And Sir Lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed; But he flew up higher, and thought, "Anon The wrath of the king will be over and gone; And his crown, shining out of its cloudy fold, Will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold."

So he flew--with the strength of a lark he flew; But, as he rose, the cloud rose too; And not one gleam of the golden hair Came through the depths of the misty air; Till, weary with flying, with sighing sore, The strong sun-seeker could do no more.

His wings had had no chrism of gold; And his feathers felt withered and worn and old; He faltered, and sank, and dropped like a stone.

And there on his nest, where he left her, alone Sat his little wife on her little eggs, Keeping them warm with wings and legs.

Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing!

Full in her face was shining the king.

"Welcome, Sir Lark! You look tired," said he; "_Up_ is not always the best way to me.

While you have been singing so high and away, I've been shining to your little wife all day."

He had set his crown all about the nest, And out of the midst shone her little brown breast; And so glorious was she in russet gold, That for wonder and awe Sir Lark grew cold.

He popped his head under her wing, and lay As still as a stone, till King Sun was away.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

_The Skylark_[10]

How the blithe Lark runs up the golden stair That leans thro' cloudy gates from Heaven to Earth, And all alone in the empyreal air Fills it with jubilant sweet songs of mirth; How far he seems, how far With the light upon his wings, Is it a bird or star That shines and sings?

And now he dives into a rainbow's rivers; In streams of gold and purple he is drown'd; Shrilly the arrows of his song he shivers, As tho' the stormy drops were turned to sound: And now he issues thro', He scales a cloudy tower; Faintly, like falling dew, His fast notes shower.

FREDERICK TENNYSON.

[Footnote 10: _By courtesy of John Lane._]

_The Skylark_

Bird of the wilderness, Blithesome and c.u.mberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!

Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place,-- Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth!

Where, on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!

Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place-- Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

JAMES HOGG.

(The Ettrick Shepherd.)

_The Bobolinks_

When Nature had made all her birds, With no more cares to think on, She gave a rippling laugh, and out There flew a Bobolinkon.

She laughed again; out flew a mate; A breeze of Eden bore them Across the fields of Paradise, The sunrise reddening o'er them.

Incarnate sport and holiday, They flew and sang forever; Their souls through June were all in tune, Their wings were weary never.

Their tribe, still drunk with air and light, And perfume of the meadow, Go reeling up and down the sky, In sunshine and in shadow.

One springs from out the dew-wet gra.s.s; Another follows after; The morn is thrilling with their songs And peals of fairy laughter.

From out the marshes and the brook, They set the tall reeds swinging, And meet and frolic in the air, Half prattling and half singing.