Chapter V: Introduction (3)

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! ev’n as the flow’rs in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late past frost’s tributes of pleasure bring:
Grief melts away,
Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.

Who would have thought my shrivel’d heart
Could have recover’d greenness? It was gone
Quite under ground, as flowers depart
To see their mother-root, when they have blown;
Where they together,
All the hard weather,
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

These are thy wonders, Lord of power!
Thrilling and quick’ning, bringing down to hell,
And up to heaven in an hour;
Making a chiming of a passing bell.
We say amiss,
This or that is:
Thy word is all, if we would spell.

Oh, that I once past changing were
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flow’r can wither!
Many a spring I shot up fair,
Offering at heav’n, growing and groaning thither:
Nor doth my flower
Want a spring-shower,
My sins and I joining together.

But while I grow in a straight line,
Still upward bent, as if heav’n were mine own,
Thy anger comes, and I decline:
What frost to that? What pole is not the zone,
Where all things burn,
When thou dost turn,
And the least frown of thine is shown?

And now in age I bud again;
After so many deaths I live and write,
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing. O, my only light,
It can not be,
That I am he,
On whom thy tempests fell all night!

These are thy wonders, Lord of love!
To make us see we are but flow’rs that glide;
Which, when we once can find and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide.
Who would be more,
Swelling through store,
Forfeit their Paradise by their pride,
GEORGE HERBERT, 1598–1632.

ODE.

FROM THE TURKISH.

Hear! how the nightingales on every spray, Hail, in wild notes, the sweet return of May: The gale, that o’er yon waving almond blows, The verdant bank with silver blossoms strews; The smiling season decks each flowery glade. Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

What gales of fragrance scent the vernal air! Hills, dales, and woods their loveliest mantles wear, Who knows what cares await that fatal day, When ruder guests shall banish gentle May? E’en death, perhaps, our valleys will invade. Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

The tulip now its varied hue displays, And sheds, like Ahmed’s eye, celestial rays. Ah! nature, ever faithful, ever true, The joys of youth, while May invites, pursue! Will not these notes your timorous minds persuade? Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

The sparkling dew-drops o’er the lilies play, Like orient pearls, or like the beams of day. If love and mirth your idle thoughts engage, Attend, ye nymphs! a poet’s words are sage. While thus you sit beneath the trembling shade, Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

The fresh-blown rose, like Zeineb’s cheek appears, When pearls, like dew-drops, glitter in her ears. The charms of youth at once are seen and past, And Nature says, “They are too sweet to last.” So blooms the rose, and so the blushing maid— Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

See! yon anemones their leaves unfold, With rubies gleaming, and with living gold: While crystal showers from weeping clouds descend, Enjoy the presence of thy tuneful friend: Now, while the wines are brought, the sofa’s laid, Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

The plants no more are dried, the meadow dead; No more the rose-bud hangs her pensive head; The shrubs revive in valleys, mead, and bowers, And every stalk is garland’d with flowers; In silken robes each hillock stands arrayed— Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

Clear drops, each morn, impearl the rose’s bloom, And from its leaf the zephyr drinks perfume; The dewy buds expand their lucid store: Be this our wealth; ye damsels ask no more, Though wise men envy, and though fools upbraid, Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

The dew-drops sprinkled by the musky gale, Are changed to essence ere they reach the dale; The mild, blue sky a rich pavilion spreads, Without our labor, o’er our favor’d heads. Let others toil in war, in arts, in trade— Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

Late gloomy winter chilled the sullen air, Till Soliman arose, and all was fair. Soft in his reign, the notes of love resound, And pleasure’s rosy cup goes freely round. Here on the bank which mantling vines o’ershade, Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

May this rude lay, from age to age remain, A true memorial of this lovely train. Come, charming maid, and hear thy poet sing, Thyself the rose, and he the bird of spring; Love bids him sing, and love will be obey’d. Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade! _Translation of_SIR WILLIAM JONES. _From the Turkish of_ MESIHI.

TO SPRING.

Alas, delicious Spring! God sends thee down To breathe upon his cold and perish’d works Beauteous revival; earth should welcome thee— Thee and the west wind, thy smooth paramour, With the soft laughter of her flowery meads; Her joys, her melodies, the prancing stag Flutters the shivering fern; the steed shakes out His mane, the dewy herbage, silver-webb’d,

With frank step trampling; the wild goat looks down From his empurpling bed of heath, where break The waters deep and blue, with crystal gleams Of their quick-leaping people; the fresh lark Is in the morning sky; the nightingale Tunes evensong to the dropping waterfall. Creation lives with loveliness—all melts And trembles into one mild harmony. H. MILMAN.

TO SPRING.

FROM THE DANISH.

Thy beams are sweet, beloved spring! The winter-shades before thee fly; The bough smiles green, the young birds sing, The chainless current glistens by, Till countless flowers like stars illume The deepening vale and forest gloom.

O welcome, gentle guest from high, Sent to cheer our world below, To lighten sorrow’s faded eye, To kindle nature’s social glow! O, he is o’er his fellows blest Who feels thee in a guiltless breast!

Peace to the generous heart essaying With deeds of love to win our praise! He smiles, the spring of life surveying, Nor fears her cold and wintry days: To his high goal with triumph bright The calm years waft him in their flight.

Thou glorious goal, that shin’st afar, And seem’st to smile us on our way, Bright is the hope that crowns our war, The dawn-blush of eternal day; There shall we meet, this dark world o’er, And mix in love for evermore. _Translation of_ W. S. WALKER. THOMAS THAARUP, 1749–1821.

SPRING.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Look all around thee! How the spring advances!
New life is playing through the gay green trees;
See how, in yonder bower, the light leaf dances
To the bird’s tread, and to the quivering breeze!
How every blossom in the sunlight glances!
The winter frost to his dark cavern flees,
And earth, warm-wakened, feels through every vein
The kindly influence of the vernal rain.
Now silvery streamlets, from the mountains stealing,
Dance joyously the verdant vales along;
Cold fear no more the songster’s voice is sealing;
Down in the thick dark grove is heard his song;
And, all their bright and lovely hues revealing,
A thousand plants the field and forest throng;
Light comes upon the earth in radiant showers,
And mingling rainbows play among the flowers.
_Translation of_ C. T. BROOKS. LUDWIG TIECK.

ODE.

FROM THE SPANISH.

’Tis sweet, in the green spring,
To gaze upon the wakening fields around;
Birds in thicket sing,
Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground;
A thousand odors rise,
Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dyes.

Shadowy, and close, and cool,
The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook;
For ever fresh and full,
Shines at their feet the thirst-inviting brook;
And the soft herbage seems
Spread for a place of banquets and of dreams.

Thou, who alone art fair,
And whom alone I love, art far away:
Unless thy smile be there,
It makes me sad to see the earth so gay:
I care not if the train
Of leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again!
_Translation of_ W. C. BRYANT. ESTEVAN MANUEL DE VILLEGAS,
1595–1669.

THE AWAKENING YEAR.

The blue-birds and the violets
Are with us once again,
And promises of summer spot
The hill-side and the plain.

The clouds along the mountain-tops
Are riding on the breeze,
Their trailing azure trains of mist
Are tangled in the trees.

The snow-drifts, which have lain so long,
Haunting the hidden nooks,
Like guilty ghosts have slipped away,
Unseen, into the brooks.

The streams are fed with generous rain,
They drink the wayside springs,
And flutter down from crag to crag,
Upon their foamy wings.

Through all the long wet nights they brawl,
By mountain-homes remote,
Till woodmen in their sleep behold
Their ample rafts afloat.

The lazy wheel that hung so dry
Above the idle stream,
Whirls wildly in the misty dark,
And through the miller’s dream.

Loud torrent unto torrent calls,
Till at the mountain’s feet
Flashing afar their spectral light,
The noisy waters meet.

They meet, and through the lowlands sweep,
Toward briny bay and lake,
Proclaiming to the distant towns
“The country is awake!”
T. B. REED.

SPRING SCENE.

Winter is past; the heart of Nature warms Beneath the wreck of unresisted storms; Doubtful at first, suspected more than seen, The southern slopes are fringed with tender green; On sheltered banks, beneath the dripping eaves, Spring’s earliest nurslings spread their glowing leaves, Bright with the hues from wider pictures won, White, azure, golden—drift, or sky, or sun: The snowdrop, bearing on her radiant breast The frozen trophy torn from winter’s crest; The violet, gazing on the arch of blue Till her own iris wears its deepened hue; The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mold, Naked and shivering, with his cup of gold. Swelled with new life, the darkening elm on high Prints her thick buds against the spotted sky; On all her boughs the stately chestnut cleaves The gummy shroud that wraps her embryo leaves; The house-fly, stealing from his narrow grave, Drugged with the opiate that November gave, Beats with faint wing against the snowy pane, Or crawls tenacious o’er its lucid plain; From shaded chinks of lichen-crusted walls In languid curves the gliding serpent crawls; The bog’s green harper, thawing from his sleep Twangs a hoarse note, and tries a shortened leap. On floating rails that face the softening noons The still, shy turtles range their dark platoons, Or toiling, aimless, o’er the mellowing fields, Trail through the grass their tesselated shields. At last young April, ever frail and fair, Wooed by her playmate with the golden hair, Chased to the margin of receding floods, O’er the soft meadows starred with opening buds, In tears and blushes sighs herself away, And hides her cheek beneath the flowers of May. O. W. HOLMES.

SPRING.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF PETRARCH.

The soft west wind, returning, brings again Its lovely family of herbs and flowers; Progne’s gay notes, and Philomela’s strain Vary the dance of spring-tide’s rosy hours; And joyously o’er every field and plain, Glows the bright smile that greets them from above, And the warm spirit of reviving love Breathes in the air and murmurs from the main. But tears and sorrowing sighs, which gushingly Pour from the secret chambers of my heart, Are all that spring returning brings to me; And in the modest smile, or glance of art, The song of birds, the bloom of heath and tree, A desert’s rugged tract and savage forms I see. _Translation of_ G. W. GREENE. FRANCESCO PETRARCA, 1304–1374.

IV.
=Morning.=

The morning song of Bellman, commencing, “Up, Amaryllis!” is one of the most celebrated of the lyrical poems of Sweden. We are told that nothing can exceed the enthusiasm with which it is sung in that country by high and low, old and young, alike. The translation inserted in the ensuing pages has been taken from the interesting work of the Howitts, on the “Literature of Northern Europe.”

MORNING MELODIES.

But who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain side; The lowing herd, the sheepfold’s simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean tide; The hum of bees, the linnet’s lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove

The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;
Crown’d with her pail the tripping milk-maid sings;
The whistling plowman stalks afield; and hark!
Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings;
Through rustling corn the hare, astonish’d, springs;
Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour—
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings;
Deep mourns the turtle in sequester’d bower,
And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tour.
JAMES BEATTIE, 1735–1803.

MORNING WALK.

The morning hath not lost her virgin blush, Nor step, but mine, soil’d the earth’s tinsel’d robe. How full of Heaven this solitude appears— This healthful comfort of the happy swain, Who from his hard but peaceful bed roused up, In morning’s exercise saluted is By a full choir of feather’d choristers, Wedding their notes to the enamor’d air! There Nature, in her unaffected dress, Plaited with valleys, and emboss’d with hills, Enlaced with silver streams, and fring’d with woods, Sits lovely in her native russet. WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE, 1619–1689.

HYMN.

BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI.

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc! The Arne and Aveyron at thy base Rove ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines How silently! Around thee and above, Deep in the air and dark, substantial, black— An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it As with a wedge! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity! O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer, I worshiped the Invisible alone.

Yet like some sweet, beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my life, and life’s own secret joy; Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused Into the mighty vision passing—there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven!

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! Grim vales and icy cliffs all join my hymn.

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale! O struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink, Companion of the morning-star, and of the dawn. Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad! Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, Forever shattered, and the same forever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam? And who commanded (and the silence came), Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain’s brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain— Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven, Beneath the keen, full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? God! Let the torrent, like a shout of nations, Answer, and let the ice-plains echo God! God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal pool! Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle’s nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the elements! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! Thou too, hoar mount! with the sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene Into the depths of clouds, that vail thy breast— Thou too, again, stupendous mountain! thou That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemed, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me—rise, O ever rise— Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth! Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God! S. T. COLERIDGE.

MORNING.

Wish’d morning’s come; and now upon the plains And distant mountains, where they feed their flocks, The happy shepherds leave their homely huts, And with their pipes proclaim the new-born day! The lusty swain comes with his well-fill’d stoup Of healthful viands, which, when hunger calls, With much content and appetite he eats, To follow in the field his daily toil, And dress the grateful glebe that yields him fruits. The beasts, that under the warm hedges slept, And weather’d out the cold, bleak night, are up, And, looking toward the neighboring pastures, raise Their voice, and bid their fellow-brutes good-morrow! The cheerful birds, too, on the tops of trees, Assemble all in choirs, and with their notes Salute and welcome up the rising sun. THOMAS OTWAY, 1651–1685.

SPRING MORNING IN ITALY.

The sun is up, and ’tis a morn of May, Round old Ravenna’s clear-shown towers and bay; A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen— Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green; For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night, Have left a sparkling welcome for the light; And there’s a crystal clearness all about; The leaves are sharp; the distant hills look out; A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze; The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees; And when you listen, you may hear a coil, Of bubbling springs about the grassy soil; And all the scene, in short—sky, earth, and sea— Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.

’Tis nature full of spirits, waked and springing; The birds to the delicious time are singing, Darting with freaks and snatches up and down, Where the light woods go seaward from the town; While happy faces striking through the green Of leafy roads at every town are seen. And the far ships, lifting their sails of white, Like joyful hands, come up with scattery light— Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day, And chase the whistling brine and swirl into the bay. Already in the streets the stir grows loud, Of expectation and a bustling crowd; With feet and voice the gathering hum contends, The deep talk heaves, the ready laugh ascends; Callings, and clapping doors, and curs unite, And shouts from mere exuberance of delight; And armed bands, making important way, Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday; And nodding neighbors, greeting as they run; And pilgrims chanting in the morning sun. LEIGH HUNT.

UP, AMARYLLIS!

SWEDISH.

Waken, thou fair one! up, Amaryllis!
Morning so still is;
Cool is the gale:
The rainbows of heaven,
With its hues seven,
Brightness hath given
To wood and dale.
Sweet Amaryllis, let me convey thee;
In Neptune’s arms naught shall affray thee;
Sleep’s god no longer power has to stay thee,
Over thy eyes and speech to prevail.

Come out a-fishing; nets forth are carrying;
Come without tarrying—
Hasten with me.
Jerkin and vail in—
Come for the sailing,
For trout and grayling:
Baits will lay we.
Awake, Amaryllis! dearest, awaken;
Let me not go forth by thee forsaken;
Our course among dolphins and sirens taken,
Onward shall paddle our boat to the sea.

Bring rod and line—bring nets for the landing;
Morn is expanding,
Hasten away!
Sweet! no denying,
Frowning, or sighing—
Could’st thou be trying
To answer me nay?
Hence, on the shallows, our little boat leaving,
Or to the Sound where green waves are heaving,
Where our true love its first bond was weaving,
Causing to Thirsis so much dismay.

Step in the boat, then! both of us singing,
Love afresh springing,
O’er us shall reign.
If the storm rages,
If it war wages,
Thy love assuages
Terror and pain.

Calm 'mid the billows’ wildest commotion, I would defy on thy bosom the ocean, Or would attend thee to death with devotion: Sing, O ye sirens, and mimic my strain! _Translation of_ MRS. HOWITT. CARL MICHAEL BELLMANN, 1740–1795.

THE MORNING WALK.

FROM THE DANISH.

To the beech-grove, with so sweet an air,
It beckoned me;
O Earth! that never the plowshare
Had furrowed thee!
In their dark shelter the flowerets grew,
Bright to the eye,
And smiled, at my feet, on the cloudless blue
Which decked the sky.

* * * * *

O lovely field, and forest fair,
And meads grass-clad!
Her bride-bed Freya everywhere
Enameled had;
The corn-flowers rose in azure bond
From earthly cell;
Naught else could I do but stop, and stand,
And greet them well.

“Welcome on earth’s green breast again,
Ye flowerets dear!
In Spring how charming, 'mid the grain,
Your heads ye rear!
Like stars 'midst lightning’s yellow ray
Ye shine red, blue:
O how your Summer aspect gay
Delights my view!”

“O poet, poet, silence keep,
God help thy case!
Our owner holds us sadly cheap,
And scorns our race;
Each time he sees he calls us scum,
Or worthless tares,
Hell-weeds, that but to vex him come
'Midst his corn-ears.”

“O wretched mortals! O wretched man!
O wretched crowd!
No pleasures ye pluck, no pleasures ye plan,
In life’s lone road—
Whose eyes are blind to the glories great
Of the works of God,
And dream that the mouth is the nearest gate
To joy’s abode!

“Come, flowers! for we to each other belong,
Come, graceful elf,
And around my lute in sympathy strong
Now wind thyself;
And quake as if moved by zephyr’s wing,
'Neath the clang of the chord;
And a morning song with glee we’ll sing
To our Maker and Lord.”
_Anonymous Translation._ ADAM GOTTLOB OCHLENSHLAGER, 1779.

DANISH MORNING SONG.

From eastern quarters now
The sun’s up wandering;
His rays on the rock’s brow,
And hill-side squandering.
Be glad, my soul! and sing amid thy pleasure;
Fly from the house of dust,
Up with thy thanks, and burst
To heaven’s azure.

O, countless as the grains
Of sand so tiny—
Measureless as the main’s
Deep waters briny;
God’s mercy is which he upon me showeth!
Each morning in my shell,
A grace immeasurable
To me down-poureth.

Thou best does understand,
Lord God! my needing,
And placed is in thy hand,
My fortune’s speeding.

And thou foreseest what is for me most fitting;
Be still, then, O my soul!
To manage in the whole,
Thy God permitting!

May fruit the land array,
And even for eating!
May truth e’er make its way,
With justice meeting!
Give Thou to me my share with every other,
Till down my staff I lay,
And from this world away
Wend to another!
_Translation of_ H. W. LONGFELLOW. THOMAS KINGO, 1634–1728.

SUMMER MORNING SONG.

FROM THE DUTCH.

Up, sleeper! dreamer, up! for now
There’s gold upon the mountain’s brow—
There’s light on forests, lakes, and meadows:
The dew-drops shine on floweret bells;
The village clock of morning tells.
Up, man! Out, cattle! for the dells
And dingles teem with shadows.

Up! out! o’er furrow and o’er field!
The claims of toil some moments yield,
For morning’s bliss and time is fleeter
Than thought; so out! ’tis dawning yet;
Why twilight’s lovely hour forget?
For sweet though be the workman’s sweat,
The wanderer’s sweat is sweeter.

Up! to the fields! through shine and stour!
What hath the dull and drowsy hour
So blest as this—the glad heart leaping,
To hear morn’s early song sublime?
See earth rejoicing in its prime!
The summer is the waking time,
The winter, time for sleeping.

O fool! to sleep such hours away,
While blushing nature wakes to day,
Or down through summer morning soaring!

’Tis meet for thee the winter long,
When snows fall fast, and winds blow strong,
To waste the night amid the throng,
Their vinous poisons pouring.

The very beast that crops the flower
Hath welcome for the dawning hour:
Aurora smiles; her beckonings claim thee.
Listen! look round! the chirp, the hum,
Song, low, and bleat—there’s nothing dumb—
All love, all life! Come slumberer, come!
The meanest thing shall shame thee.

We come—we come—our wanderings take
Through dewy field, by misty lake,
And rugged paths, and woods pervaded
By branches o’er, by flowers beneath,
Making earth odorous with their breath;
Or through the shadeless gold-gorze heath,
Or 'neath the poplars shaded.

Were we of feather, or of fin,
How blest to dash the river in,
Thread the rock-stream, as it advances—
Or, better, like the birds above,
Rise to the greenest of the grove,
And sing the matin song of love,
Amid the highest branches!

O thus to revel, thus to range,
I’ll yield the counter, bank, or 'Change—
The busier crowds all peace destroying:
The toil with snow that roofs our brains,
The seeds of care which harvests pains;
The wealth for more which strains and strains,
Still less and less enjoying!

O, happy who the city’s noise,
Can quit for nature’s quiet joys—
Quit worldly sin and worldly sorrow;
No more 'midst prison walls abide,
But in God’s temple, vast and wide,
Pour praises every eventide,
Ask mercies every morrow!

No seraph’s flaming sword hath driven
That man from Eden or from Heaven—
From earth’s sweet smiles and winning features;

For him by toils and troubles toss’d,
By wealth and wearying cares engross’d,
For him a Paradise is lost,
But not for happy creatures!

Come—though a glance it may be—come—
Enjoy, improve; then hurry home,
For life strong urgencies must bind us!
Yet mourn not; morn shall wake anew,
And we shall wake to bless it new.
Homewards! the herds that shake the dew,
We’ll leave in peace behind us!
_Anonymous Translation._ H. TOLLENS, 1778.

]

V.
=Lark and Nightingale.=

The voices of these two noblest of the singing-birds of the Old World may be heard, in echoing accompaniment, throughout the prolonged choir of European poets, from the earliest dawn of civilization to the present hour. There are few poems of any length, in either of the languages of Europe, in which some allusion to one or the other has not a place. The noblest poets of the earth were born companions to these birds; beneath skies saluted by the lark, among groves haunted by the nightingale. These little creatures sung with Homer and Sappho among the isles of Greece—for Virgil and Horace on the plains of Italy; they cheered Dante in his lifelong wandering exile, and Petrarch in his solitary hermitage. Conceive also the joy with which Chaucer, and Shakspeare, and Spenser listened, each in his day, among the daisied fields of England, to music untaught, instinctive like their own! What pure delight, indeed, have these birds not given

to the heart of genius during thousands of springs and summers! How many generations have they not charmed with their undying melodies! They would almost seem by their sweetness to have soothed the inexorable powers of Time and Death. Were an old Greek or an ancient Roman to rise from the dust this summer’s day—were he to awaken, after ages of sleep, to walk his native soil again, scarce an object on which his eye fell would wear a familiar aspect; scarce a sound which struck his ear but would vibrate there most strangely; yet with the dawn, rising from the plain of Marathon, or the Latin Hills, he would hear the same noble lark which sung in his boyhood; and with the moon, among the olives and ilexes shading the fallen temple, would come the same sweet nightingale which entranced his youth.

THE NOTE OF THE NIGHTINGALE.

A LETTER OF CHARLES JAMES FOX.

DEAR GREY—In defense of my opinion about the nightingales, I find
Chaucer—who of all poets seems to have been the fondest of the singing
of birds—calls it a merry note; and though Theocritus mentions
nightingales six or seven times, he never mentions their note as
plaintive or melancholy. It is true he does not call it anywhere
merry, as Chaucer does, but by mentioning it with the song of the
blackbird, and as answering it, he seems to imply that it was a
cheerful note. Sophocles is against us; but he says, “_lamenting
Itys_,” and the comparison of her to Electra is rather as to
perseverance, day and night, than as to sorrow. At all events, a
tragic poet is not half so good authority in this question as
Theocritus and Chaucer. I can not light upon the passage in the
“Odyssey,” where Penelope’s restlessness is compared to the
nightingale, but I am sure it is only as to restlessness that he makes
the comparison. If you will read the last twelve books of the
“Odyssey” you will certainly find it, and I am sure you will be paid
for your hunt, whether you find it or not. The passage in Chaucer is
in the “Flower and Leaf.” The one I particularly allude to in
Theocritus is in his “Epigrams,” I think in the fourth. Dryden has
transferred the word _merry_ to the goldfinch, in the “Flower and the
Leaf”—in deference, may be, to the vulgar error. But pray read his
description of the nightingale there; it is quite delightful. I am
afraid that I like these researches as much better than those that
relate to Shaftesbury and Sunderland, as I do those better than
attending the House of Commons.

Yours affectionately, C. J. FOX

The nightingale with so _merry a note_
Answered him, that all the wood rong
So sodainly, that as it were a sote,
I stood astonied, so was I with the song
Thorow ravished, that till late and long
I ne wist in what place I was, ne where;
And ayen, me thought, she song ever by mine ear.
CHAUCER’S “_Flower and Leaf_.”

A goldfinch there I saw, with gaudy pride
Of painted plumes, that hopp’d from side to side,
Still perching as she pass’d; and still she drew
The sweets from every flower, and sucked the dew:
Suffic’d at length, she warbled in her throat,
And tun’d her voice to many _a merry note_,
But indistinct, and neither sweet nor clear.
Her short performance was no sooner tried,
When she I sought, the nightingale, replied:
So sweet, so shrill, so variously she sung,
That the grove echoed, and the valleys rung;
And I so ravish’d with her heavenly note,
I stood entranc’d, and had no room for thought;
But all o’erpower’d with an ecstasy of bliss,
Was in a pleasing dream of Paradise.
DRYDEN’S “_Flower and Leaf_.”

As when the months are clad in flowery green,
_Sad Philomel_, in bowery shades unseen,
To vernal airs attunes her varied strains,
And Itylus sound warbling o’er the plains.
Young Itylus! his parent’s darling joy,
Whom chance misled the mother to destroy,
Now doom’d a wakeful bird to wail the beauteous boy.
_So in nocturnal solitude forlorn_,
A sad variety of woes I mourn.
_Odyssey, Book XIX._

SONNET.

O, nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray, Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still; Thou with fresh hope the lover’s heart dost fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day,

First heard before the shallow cuckoo’s bill,
Portend success in love; O if Jove’s will
Have link’d that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh.
As thou from year to year hast sung too late
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why:
Whether the muse or love call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
JOHN MILTON.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

APRIL, 1798.

No cloud, no relic of the sunken day, Distinguishes the west; no long, thin slip Of sullen light—no obscure, trembling hues. Come; we will rest on this old mossy bridge! You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, But hear no murmuring; it flows silently O’er its soft bed of verdure. All is still— A balmy night! and though the stars be dim, Yet let us think upon the vernal showers That gladden the green earth, and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. And hark! the nightingale begins its song, “Most musical, most melancholy” bird! A melancholy bird! Oh, idle thought! In nature there is nothing melancholy. * * * ’Tis the merry nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast, thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His lone chant, and disburden his full soul Of all its music! I know a grove Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, Which the great lord inhabits not; and so This grove is wild with tangling underwood, And the trim walks are broken up, and grass— Thin grass, and king-cups grow within the paths. But never elsewhere in one place I knew So many nightingales; and far and near,

In wood and thicket, over the wide grove They answer, and provoke each other’s song With skirmish and capricious passagings, And murmurs musical, and swift jug-jug, And one low, piping sound, more sweet than all, Stirring the air with such a harmony, That should you close your eyes, you might almost Forget it was not day! On moonlit bushes, Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed, You may, perchance, behold them on the twigs, Their bright, bright eyes—their eyes both bright and full, Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade Lights up her love-torch. A most gentle maid, Who dwelleth in her hospitable home, Hard by the castle, and at latest eve (Even like a lady, vowed and dedicate To something more than Nature in the grove), Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes, That gentle maid! and oft a moment’s space, What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moon Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky With one sensation, and these wakeful birds Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, As if some sudden gale had swept at once A hundred airy harps! and she hath watched Many a nightingale perched giddily On blossoming twig still swinging from the breeze, And to that motion tune his wanton song, Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.

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-ward sunk:
’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness,
Than 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,
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burned mirth!
Oh for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained 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 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 specter-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow,
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty can not 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 train 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 can not see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed 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 oldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of bees 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 to 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 oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell,
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy can not 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?
JOHN KEATS, 1796–1820.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

FROM THE DUTCH.

Prize thou the nightingale,
Who soothes thee with his tale,
And wakes the woods around;
A singing feather, he—a winged and wandering sound:

Whose tender carroling
Sets all ears listening
Unto that living lyre,
Whence flow the airy notes his ecstasies inspire;

Whose shrill, capricious song,
Breathes like a flute along,
With many a careless tone—
Music of thousand tongues, formed by one tongue alone.

O charming creature rare,
Can aught with thee compare?
Thou art all song—thy breast
Thrills for one month o’ th’ year—is tranquil all the rest.

Thee wondrous we may call—
Most wondrous this of all,
That such a tiny throat
Should wake so loud a sound, and pour so loud a note.
MARIA TESSELSCHADE VISSCHER—_Born in the 16th century._

_Translation of_ DR. BOWRING.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE.

The rose looks out in the valley,
And thither will I go!
To the rosy vale, where the nightingale
Sings his song of woe.

The virgin is on the river side,
Culling the lemons pale:
Thither—yes! thither will I go,
To the rosy vale, where the nightingale
Sings his song of woe.

The fairest fruit her hand hath cull’d,
’Tis for her lover all:
Thither—yes! thither will I go,
To the rosy vale, where the nightingale
Sings his song of woe.

In her hat of straw, for her gentle swain,
She has placed the lemons pale:
Thither—yes! thither will I go,
To the rosy vale, where the nightingale
Sings his song of woe.
_Translation of_ JOHN BOWRING. GIL VICENTE, 1480–1557.

THE MOTHER BIRD.

SIMILE FROM “DIVINA COMMEDIA.”

Like as the bird who on her nest all night Had rested, darkling with her tender brood, 'Mid the loved foliage, longing now for light, To gaze on their dear looks, and bring them food: Sweet task! whose pleasures all its toil repay— Anticipates the dawn, and through the wood Ascending, perches on the topmost spray; There, all impatience, watching to descry The first faint glimmer of approaching day: Thus did my lady toward the southern sky, Erect and motionless, her visage turn; The mute suspense that filled her wistful eye, Made me like one who waits a friend’s return, Lives on this hope, and will no other own. _Translation of_ F. C. GRAY. DANTE ALIGHIERI, 1265–1321.

THE MOTHER NIGHTINGALE.

FROM THE SPANISH.

I have seen a nightingale, On a sprig of thyme bewail, Seeing the dear nest, which was Hers alone, borne off, alas! By a laborer. I heard, For this outrage, the poor bird Say a thousand mournful things To the wind, which, on its wings, From her to the guardian of the sky, Bore her melancholy cry— Bore her tender tears. She spake As if her fond heart would break: One while, in a sad, sweet note, Gurgled from her straining throat; She enforced her piteous tale, Mournful prayer, and plaintive wail; One while with the shrill dispute, Quite outwearied, she was mute; Then afresh for her dear brood, Her harmonious shrieks renewed.

Now she winged it round and round; Now she skimmed along the ground; Now, from bough to bough, in haste, The delighted robber chased, And, alighting in his path, Seemed to say, ’twixt grief and wrath, “Give me back, fierce rustic rude— Give me back my pretty brood!” And I saw the rustic still Answered, “That I never will!” _Translation of_ T. ROSCOE. ESTEVAN MANUEL DE VILLEGAS, 1595–1669.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

FROM THE DUTCH.

Soul of living music, teach me—
Teach me, floating thus along!
Love-sick warbler, come and reach me
With the secrets of thy song!

How thy beak, so sweetly trembling,
On one note long lingering tries;
Or a thousand tones assembling,
Pour the rush of harmonies!

Or when rising shrill and shriller,
Other music dies away—
Other songs grow still and stiller,
Songster of the night and day!

Till—all sunk to silence round thee—
Not a whisper—not a word—
Not a leaf-fall to confound thee—
Breathless all—thou only heard.

Tell me, thou who failest never,
Minstrel of the songs of spring!
Did the world see ages ever,
When thy voice forgot to sing?

Is there in your woodland history
Any Homer, whom ye read?
Has your music aught of mystery?
Has it measure, cliff, and creed?

Have ye teachers who instruct ye—
Checking each ambitious strain—
Learned parrots to conduct ye,
When ye wander back again?

Smiling at my dreams, I see thee,
Nature, in her chainless will,
Did not fetter thee, but free thee—
Pour thy hymns of rapture still!

Plumed in pomp, and pride prodigious,
Lo! the gaudy peacock rears;
But his grating voice so hideous,
Shocks the soul and grates the ears.

Finches may be trained to follow
Notes which dexterous arts combine;
But those notes sound vain and hollow
When compared, sweet bird, with thine.

Classic themes no longer courting—
Ancient tongues I’ll cast away,
And with nightingales disporting,
Sing the wild and woodland lay!
_Anonymous Translation._ LOOTS, _a living Dutch Poet_.

NEST OF THE NIGHTINGALE.

Up this green woodland side let’s softly rove, And list the nightingale; she dwells just here. Hush! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear The noise might drive her from her home of love; For here I’ve heard her many a merry year— At morn, at eve—nay, all the live-long day, As though she lived on song. This very spot, Just where the old-man’s-beard all wildly trails Rude arbors o’er the road, and stops the way; And where the child its blue-bell flowers hath got, Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails; There have I hunted like a very boy, Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn, To find her nest, and see her feed her young, And vainly did I many hours employ:

All seemed as hidden as a thought unborn; And where those crumpling fern-leaves ramp among The hazel’s under-boughs, I’ve nestled down And watch’d her while she sang; and her renown Hath made me marvel that so famed a bird Should have no better dress than russet brown. Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy, And feathers stand on end, as ’twere with joy; And mouth wide open to release her heart Of its out-sobbing songs. The happiest part Of summer’s fame she shared, for so to me Did happy fancy shapen her employ. But if I touched a bush, or scarcely stirred, All in a moment stopt. I watched in vain: The timid bird had left the hazel bush, And oft in distance hid to sing again. Lost in a wilderness of listening leaves, Rich ecstasy would pour its luscious strain, Till envy spurred the emulating thrush To start less wild and scarce inferior songs; For while of half the year care him bereaves, To damp the ardor of his speckled breast, The nightingale to summer’s life belongs, And naked trees, and winter’s nipping wrongs Are strangers to her music, and her rest. Her joys are ever green—her world is wide! Hark! there she is, as usual; let’s be hush; For in this black-thorn clump, if rightly guessed, Her curious house is hidden. Part aside Those hazel branches in a gentle way, And stoop right cautious 'neath the rustling boughs, For we will have another search to-day, And hunt this fern-strewn thorn-clump round and round; And where this reeded wood-grass idly bows, We’ll wade right through; it is a likely nook. In such like spots, and often on the ground They’ll build, where rude boys never think to look. Ay! as I live! her secret nest is here, Upon this white-thorn stump! * * * We will not plunder music of its dower, Nor turn this spot of happiness to thrall, For melody seems hid in every flower That blossoms near thy home. These blue-bells all Seem bowing with the beautiful in song; And gaping cuckoo-flower, with spotted leaves,

Seems blushing of the singing it has heard. How curious is the nest! No other bird Uses such loose materials, or weaves Its dwelling in such spots! Dead oaken leaves Are placed without, and velvet moss within; And little scraps of grass, and scant and spare, What hardly seem materials, down and hair; For from men’s haunts she nothing seems to win. JOHN CLARE.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

SONNET.

Sweet bird, that sing’st away the early hours
Of winters past or coming—void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are;
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers;
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers,
Thou thy Creator’s goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare;
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs,
Attir’d in sweetness, sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth’s turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverent eye and thought to heaven?
WILLIAM DRUMMOND, 1585–1649.

THE LARK.

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,
And Phœbus 'gins arise—
His steeds to water at those springs,
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With every thing that pretty bin—
My lady sweet, arise!
W. SHAKSPEARE.

FROM THE “COMPLETE ANGLER.”

At first the lark, when she means to rejoice, to cheer herself and those that hear her, she then quits the earth, and sings as she ascends higher into the air; and having ended her heavenly employment, grows

then mute and sad, to think she must descend to the dull earth, which she would not touch but for necessity,

How do the blackbird and throssel, with their melodious voices, bid welcome to the cheerful spring, and in their fixed mouths warble forth such ditties as no art or instrument can reach to!

Nay, the smaller birds also do the like in their particular seasons, as, namely, the laverock, the titlark, the little linnet, and the honest robin, that loves mankind, both alive and dead.

But the nightingale—another of my airy creatures—breathes such sweet, loud music out of her little instrumental throat, that it might make mankind to think miracles are not ceased. He that at midnight, when the very laborer sleeps securely, should hear—as I have very often—the clear airs, the sweet descants, the natural rising and falling, the doubling and redoubling of her voice, might well be lifted above earth, and say, “Lord, what music hast thou provided for the saints in heaven, when thou afforded bad men such music on earth?”

IZAAK WALTON, 1593–1683.

TO THE SKYLARK.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wer’t,
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher,
From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning
Of the setting sun,
O’er which clouds are brightening,
Thou dost float and run;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale, purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven,
In the broad daylight,
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud,
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow-clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden,
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

Like a glow-worm golden,
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aërial hue
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:

Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wing’d thieves.

Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,

All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass,

Teach no 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 triumphant 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 can not be:
Shades of annoyance
Never come 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 SHELLEY.

A LARK SINGING IN A RAINBOW.

Fraught with a transient, frozen shower If a cloud should haply lower, Sailing o’er the landscape dark, Mute, on a sudden, is the lark; But when gleams the sun again O’er the pearl-besprinkled plain, And from behind his watery vail Looks through the thin descending hail; She mounts, and, lessening to the sight, Salutes the blithe return of light, And high her tuneful track pursues Through the rainbow’s melting hues. THOMAS WARTON, 1728–1790.

THE SKYLARK.

FROM “THE FARMER’S BOY.”