Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: And haply the queen-moon is on her throne, Cluster'd 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 cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 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- Thou wast not born for earth, immortal bird! Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam, Forlorn the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. SONGS OF NIGHTINGALES. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music: Do I wake or sleep? KEATS TO A NIGHTINGALE. 'Tis night! awake, awake! And from thy leafy covert raise thy voice! Call to the echoes, call To the far woods that steep'd in moonlight lie; From out thy leafy boughs Thy voice is as the trumpet's through the wild, Yet not with sense of dread Peasants are gathering in the midnight hours, The gentle poet speeds Forth in the dewy hush of night, elate Pour forth, pour forth thy strain Until the blue depths of the heavens are fill'd; With thine own song is still'd. Oh! pour, as thou didst ever, Thy tide of song forth from thy hidden tree, When poesy divine Made visible glory by the sacred spring, 217 Then from his dreamy mood, A marvel to himself, the poet sprung, In spiritual might, like one with youth renew'd, Oh! as thou wast to him Alas! it were unjust To deem thou couldst transmute our iron age: We come forth in the night, In the pure dews and silvery light of heaven Ay, sing, thou rapturous bird; And though my spirit bear the impress of ill, MARY HOWITT. Thomas Haywood calls upon the birds to wish his love good-morrow," Pack clouds away and welcome day Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft, Wake from thy nest, robin-redbreast, But whate'er a bird is, Do we wake, or do we sleep; Go our fancies in a crowd Birds are singing loud! Sing then linnet; sing then wren; We will sing of you! MARY HOWITT. Mr. Main, in the "Magazine of Natural History, observes, that "no bird sings with more method than the lark; there is an overture performed, vivace crescendo, while the singer ascends; when at the full height, the song becomes moderato, and distinctly divided into short passages, each repeated three or four times over, like a fantasia, in the same key and tune. If there be any wind, he rises perpendicularly by bounds, and afterwards poises himself with breast opposed to it. If calm, he ascends in spiral circles; in horizontal circles during the principal part of his song, and zigzagly downwards during the performance of the finale. Sometimes, after descending about half-way, he ceases to sing, and drops with the velocity of an arrow to the ground. Those acquainted with the song of the skylark, can tell, without looking at them, whether the birds be ascending or stationary in the air, or on their descent; so different is the style of the song in each case. In the first, there is an expression of ardent impatience; in the second, an andante composure, in which rests of a bar at a time frequently occur; and in the last, a graduated sinking of the strains, often touching the subdominant before the final close. The time and number of the notes often correspond with the vibration of the wings; and though they sometimes sing while on the ground, as they are seen |