I thought the cuckoo more remote
Than ever, and more hoarse his note.
The nightingale had dropt one half
Of her large gamut, and the laugh
Of upright nodding woodpecker
Less petulantly struck my ear.
Why have the birds forgot to sing,
Is this as in a former spring?
Can it be that the days are cold.
Or (surely no) that I am old.
Strange fancy! how could I forget
That I have not seen eighty yet!
Why do our joys depart
For cares to seize the heart?
I know not. Nature says,
Obey; and man obeys.
I see, and know not why
Thorns live and roses die.
All is not over while the shade
Of parting life, if now aslant,
Rests on the scene whereon it play'd
And taught a docile heart to pant.
Autumn is passing by; his day
Shines mildly yet on gather'd sheaves,
And, tho' the grape be pluckt away,
Its colour glows amid the leaves.
ye not love more sisterly,
Ye roses, but must you keep down
The latest-born? you under, try
To push aside your sister's crown?
O shame upon you, envious pair!
Well may you blush; and well may you
Hide your young face. Look! one comes near
Who by her smile shall shame the two.
The days of our youth are not over while sadness
Chills never, and seldom o'ershadows, the heart;
While Friendship is crowning the banquet of Gladness
And bids us be seated and offers us part;
While the swift-spoken when? and the slowly-breath'd hush!
Make us half-love the maiden and half-hate the lover,
And feel too what is or what should be a blush
Believe me, the days of our youth are not over.
Death, tho' I see him not, is near
And grudges me my eightieth year.
Now, I would give him all these last
For one that fifty have run past.
Ah! he strikes all things, all alike,
But bargains: those he will not strike.
A BIRD was seen aloft in air; the sun
Shone brightly round him, yet few eyes could see
His colour, few could scan his size; his form
Appear'd to some like a huge bow unbent,
To others like a shapeless stake hurl'd by,
With a stiff breeze against it in its flight.
It was an eagle all the while he swoopt
Steadily onward, careless of the gang
Below him, talkative, disquisitive,
But all agreeing 'twas a bird on wing,
Some said nine inches, some said ten across.
There were old people who could recollect
That market-day, that crowd, that questioning,
Those outcries to drive off the fearless bird.
One of them I accosted; he replied,
"Yea, I have seen him, and must say for him Now he is dead (and well it is for us)
He liked a coney or a lamb too much,
But never settled on dead carcases
To pluck out eye or tug at putrid tongue.
They who reviled him while he swept the air
Are glad enough to wear a feather now
Of that strong wing, and boast to have observ'd
Its sunny soaring on that market-day."
Why do I praise a peach
Not on my wall, no, nor within my reach ?
Because I see the bloom
And scent the fragrance many steps from home.
Permit me still to praise
The higher Genius of departed days.
Some are there yet who, nurst
In the same clime, are vigorous as the first,
And never waste their hours
(Ardent for action) among meadow flowers.
Greece with calm eyes I see
Her pure white marbles have not blinded me, But breathe on me the love
Of earthly things as bright as things above:
There is (where is there not?)
In her fair regions many a desert spot;
Neither is Dircè clear,
Nor is Ilissus full throughout the year.
TO A LADY ARCHER.
Two Goddesses, not always friends,
Are friends alike to you:
To you her bow for trial lends
The statelier of the two.
"Let Cupid have it," Venus cries,
Diana says "No! no!
Until your Cupid grows more wise
He shall not have my bow."
Her boy was sitting at her side,
His bow across his knee.
"Use thou thy own, use this," she cried :
"I did, in vain!" cried he.
"Mother! we may as well be gone;
No shaft of mine can strike That figure there, so like thy own, That heart there, so unlike.
It was a dream (ah! what is not a dream ?)
In which I wander'd thro' a boundless space
Peopled by those that peopled earth erewhile.
But who conducted me? That gentle Power,
Gentle as Death, Death's brother. On his brow
Some have seen poppies; and perhaps among
The many flowers about his wavy curls
Poppies there might be; roses I am sure
I saw, and dimmer amaranths between.
Lightly I thought I lept across a grave
Smelling of cool fresh turf, and sweet it smelt.
I would, but must not linger; I must on,
To tell my dream before forgetfulness
Sweeps it away, or breaks or changes it.
I was among the Shades (if Shades they were)
And lookt around me for some friendly hand
To guide me on my way, and tell me all
That compast me around. I wisht to find
One no less firm or ready than the guide
Of Alighieri, trustier far than he,
Higher in intellect, more conversant
With earth and heaven and whatso lies between.
He stood before me. . Southey.
Replied the genial voice and radiant eye.
"We may be question'd, question we may not;
For that might cause to bubble forth again
Some bitter spring which crost the pleasantest
And shadiest of our paths."
Said I, "about your happiness; I see
The same serenity as when we walkt
Along the downs of Clifton. Fifty years
Have roll'd behind us since that summer-tide,
Nor thirty fewer since along the lake
Of Lario, to Bellaggio villa-crown'd,
Thro' the crisp waves I urged my sideling bark,
Amid sweet salutation off the shore
From lordly Milan's proudly courteous dames."
Landor! I well remember it," said he,
"I had just lost my first-born only boy,
And then the heart is tender; lightest things
Sink into it, and dwell there evermore."
The words were not yet spoken when the air
Blew balmier; and around the parent's neck
An Angel threw his arms: it was that son.
"Father! I felt you wisht me," said the boy,
"Behold me here!"
Gentle the sire's embrace, Gentle his tone. "See here your father's friend!” He gazed into my face, then meekly said "He whom my father loves hath his reward On earth; a richer one awaits him here."
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