I THE VOICE OF SPRING. come, I come! ye have called me long I come o'er the mountains with light and song! I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes 1 I have looked on the hills of the stormy North, And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free ; And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been. I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, 3 To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain: 4 Come forth, O ye children of gladness! come: Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, 126 THE VOICE OF SPRING. But ye! Ye are changed since ye met me last! Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die! Ye are changed, ye are changed! and I see not here There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head, There were voices that rang through the sapphire 5 sky, Are they gone? Is their mirth from the mountains Ye have looked on death since ye met me last! I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now; They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair ; But I know of a land where there falls no blight: I shall find them there, with their eyes of light! Where Death 'midst the blooms of the morn may dwell, I tarry no longer-farewell, farewell! The Summer is coming, on soft winds borne- Ye are marked by care; ye are mine no more; I go where the loved who have left you dwell, 1 Fanes, temples, churches. 2 Tassels, so called from the tassel-like shape of the small bunches of foliage on the larch. 3 Hesperian, western. 4 Sparry, abounding in spar, a mineral formation. 5 Sapphire, a brilliant blue colour. TO THE NIGHTINGALE. O for a draught of vintage !1 that hath been That I might drink and leave the world unseen, Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known— The weariness, the fever, and the fret, Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where Palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs; Where Youth grows pale and spectre-thin, and dies; And leaden-eyed despairs; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 6 Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, 128 " TO THE NIGHTINGALE. And haply the queen-moon is on her throne, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— 8 Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! Perhaps the self-same song that found a path The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam 'Forlorn!' The very sound is like a bell Adieu! adieu! Thy plaintive anthem fades Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music !-Do I wake or sleep? Keats. |