TO THE CUCKOO. Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven, Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind; As full of gladness and as free of heaven, And hope for higher raptures when life's day is done. William Wordsworth. TO THE CUCKOO. HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of Spring! And woods thy welcome sing. Soon as the daisy decks the green, Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, The school-boy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, thy most curious voice to hear, And imitates thy lay. What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thon fliest thy vocal vale, 25 An annual guest in other lands, Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, Oh could I fly, I'd fly with thee! John Logan TO THE CUCKOO. O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird, While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear; Though babbling only to the vale, Thou bringest unto me a tale Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! E'en yet thou art to me THE GREEN LINNET. No bird, but an invisible thing, The same that in my school-boy days Which made me look a thousand ways, To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green ; And I can listen to thee yet; O blessed bird! the earth we pace, An unsubstantial, faery place, That is fit home for thee! William Wordsworth. THE GREEN LINNET. BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs, that shed In this sequestered nook, how sweet And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together. 27 One have I marked, the happiest guest In all this covert of the blest: Dost lead the revels of the May, And this is thy dominion. While birds, and butterflies, and flowers Make all one band of paramours, Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, Art sole in thy employment: A life, a presence like the air, Amid yon tuft of hazel-trees, Yet seeming still to hover; My dazzled sight he oft deceives— Pours forth a song in gushes; As if by that exulting strain PIPING DOWN THE VALLEYS WILD. 29 He mocked, and treated with disdain, "Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, Sing thy songs of happy cheer." While he wept with joy to hear. "Piper, sit thee down and write, And I plucked a hollow reed; And I made a rural pen; And I stained the water clear; William Blake. |