We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam, thought. Yet if we could scorn True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Hate and pride and fear, If we were things born THE THRUSH. Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. SWEET bird! that sing'st away the early hours Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Of winters past or coming, void of care; To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, The world should listen then, as I am listening And lift a reverent eye and thought to heaven! now. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. ETHEREAL minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky! To the last point of vision, and beyond, Mount, daring warbler ! that love-prompted strain, "Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond, Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain; Yet mightst thou seem, proud privilege! to sing All independent of the leafy spring. |