And feeling death swim in his endless bleeding, THE SWALLOW. HE gorse is yellow on the heath, The banks with speedwell flowers are gay, The oaks are budding; and beneath, The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, The silver wreath of May. The welcome guest of settled Spring, And hail'd her as she pass'd. THE SWALLOW. I would inquire how, journeying long The scenes you left before? But if, as colder breezes blow, Prophetic of the waning year, You hide, though none know when or how, In the cliff's excavated brow, And linger torpid here; Thus lost to life, what favouring dream Or if, by instinct taught to know To isles and willowy aits you go, How learn ye, while the cold waves boom Your deep and oozy couch above, The time when flowers of promise bloom, And call you from your transient tomb, To light, and life, and love? |