SONG.

Heywood.

PACK clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air, blow soft, mount, larks, aloft,
To give my love good morrow!
Wings from the wind, to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird, plume thy wing, nightingale, sing,
To give my love good morrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast,
Sing, birds in every furrow ;
And from each hill let music shrill

Give my fair love good morrow!
Blackbird and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow !
You pretty elves, among yourselves
Sing 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 sittʼst 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
Holds my best reason as if ill were near.

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
So early at my window do,

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
A dream out of my arms to-day;
A dream that ne'er must equall'd be
By all that waking eyes may see.
• Thou, this damage to repair,

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.