SONG. Heywood. PACK clouds away, and welcome day, Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast, Give my fair love good morrow! Now while night's dancing lamps the waste illume, And a rich silence bindeth earth and sky, I hear thy deep and long-repeated cry Break through the dimness, with a sudden boom, From some reed-circled lonely pool, whereon None gazeth-save the pale-eyed stars and thee, What time thou sitt'st in moveless reverie, When all the voices of the day are gone. Rest thee, once more, unmindful of the tread Of one who loves like thee this silent scene For its wide silence! Seek thine ancient bed, There come no saddening dreams of what hath been. Thou'rt on the wing, and chilly-finger'd fear THE LARK. Shakspeare. Lo! here the gentle Lark, weary of rest, From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The sun arises in his majesty ; Who doth the world so gloriously behold, That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold. THE SWALLOW. Cowley. FOOLISH prater, what dost thou With thy tuneless serenade ? Well't had been had Tereus made Thee as dumb as Philomel; There his knife had done but well. In thy undiscover'd nest Thou dost all the winter rest, And dreamest o'er thy summer joys, Free from the stormy season's noise; Free from the ill thou'st done to me; Who disturbs or seeks out thee? Hadst thou all the charming notes Of the wood's poetic throats, All thy art could never pay What thou hast ta'en from me away. Cruel bird! thou'st ta'en away Nothing half so sweet or fair, Nothing half so good can'st bring, Though men say thou bring'st the spring. THE GOLDFINCH. Hurdis. I LOVE to see the little Goldfinch pluck The groundsel's feather'd seed, and twit, and twit; And then, in bower of apple-blossoms perch'd, Trim his gay suit, and pay us with a song. I would not hold him pris'ner for the world. |