Volume Iii Part 51 (1/2)
Silence instead of thy sweet song, my bird, Which through the darkness of my winter days Warbling of summer suns.h.i.+ne still was heard; Mute is thy song, and vacant is thy place.
The spring comes back again, the fields rejoice, Carols of gladness ring from every tree; But I shall hear thy wild triumphant voice No more: my summer song has died with thee.
What didst thou sing of, O my summer bird?
The broad, bright, br.i.m.m.i.n.g river, whose swift sweep And whirling eddies by the home are heard, Rus.h.i.+ng, resistless, to the calling deep.
What didst thou sing of, thou melodious sprite?
Pine forests, with smooth russet carpets spread, Where e'en at noonday dimly falls the light, Through gloomy blue-green branches overhead.
What didst thou sing of, O thou jubilant soul?
Ever-fresh flowers and never-leafless trees, Bending great ivory cups to the control Of the soft swaying, orange scented breeze.
What didst thou sing of, thou embodied glee?
The wide wild marshes with their clas.h.i.+ng reeds And topaz-tinted channels, where the sea Daily its tides of briny freshness leads.
What didst thou sing of, O thou winged voice?
Dark, bronze-leaved oaks, with silver mosses crowned, Where thy free kindred live, love, and rejoice, With wreaths of golden jasmine curtained round.
These didst thou sing of, spirit of delight!
From thy own radiant sky, thou quivering spark!
These thy sweet southern dreams of warmth and light, Through the grim northern winter drear and dark.
Frances Anne Kemble [1809-1893]
”O NIGHTINGALE! THOU SURELY ART”
O nightingale! thou surely art A creature of a ”fiery heart”:-- These notes of thine--they pierce and pierce; Tumultuous harmony and fierce!
Thou sing'st as if the G.o.d of wine Had helped thee to a Valentine; A song in mockery and despite Of shades, and dews, and silent night; And steady bliss, and all the loves Now sleeping in these peaceful groves.
I heard a Stock-dove sing or say His homely tale, this very day; His voice was buried among trees, Yet to be come at by the breeze: He did not cease, but cooed--and cooed; And somewhat pensively he wooed: He sang of love, with quiet blending, Slow to begin, and never ending; Of serious faith, and inward glee; That was the Song--the Song for me!
William Wordsworth [1770-1850]
PHILOMEL
As it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap and birds did sing, Trees did grow and plants did spring; Everything did banish moan Save the Nightingale alone: She, poor bird, as all forlorn Leaned her breast up-till a thorn, And there sung the doleful'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry; Tereu, Tereu! by and by; That to hear her so complain Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs so lively shown Made me think upon mine own.
Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain, None takes pity on thy pain: Senseless trees they cannot hear thee, Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee: King Pandion he is dead, All thy friends are lapped in lead; All thy fellow birds do sing Careless of thy sorrowing: Even so, poor bird, like thee, None alive will pity me.
Richard Barnfield [1574-1627]