On the Till, weary with flying, with sighing sore, His wings had had no chrism of gold; Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing! "Welcome, Sir Lark! You look tired," said he; While you have been singing so high and away, I've been shining to your little wife all day." He had set his crown all about the nest, breast; And so glorious was she in russet gold, GEORGE MACDONALD, The Skylark How the blithe Lark runs up the golden stair That leans thro' cloudy gates from Heaven to Earth, And all alone in the empyreal air Fills it with jubilant sweet songs of mirth; How far he seems, how far With the light upon his wings, Is it a bird or star That shines and sings? And now he dives into a rainbow's rivers; In streams of gold and purple he is drown'd; He scales a cloudy tower; On the FREDERICK TENNYSON. * By courtesy of John Lane." On the The Skylark Bird of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Blest is thy dwelling-place, Oh, to abide in the desert with thee! Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth! Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Blest is thy dwelling-place Oh, to abide in the desert with thee! JAMES HOGG. (The Ettrick Shepherd.) The Bobolinks When Nature had made all her birds, She laughed again; out flew a mate; Incarnate sport and holiday, They flew and sang forever; Their souls through June were all in tune, Their tribe, still drunk with air and light, Go reeling up and down the sky, One springs from out the dew-wet grass; Another follows after; The morn is thrilling with their songs. From out the marshes and the brook, And meet and frolic in the air, Half prattling and half singing. On the On the Wing When morning winds sweep meadow-lands I see you buffeting the breeze, Or with its motion swaying, Your notes half drowned against the wind, When far away o'er grassy flats, Where the thick wood commences, And noon is hot, and barn-roofs gleam. I hear the saucy minstrels still When eve her domes of opal fire Or thunder rolls from hill to hill Still merriest of the merry birds, Of song and masquerading. Hope springs with you: I dread no more |