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beautiful bird blow blue bowers breast breeze bright Carrion Crow cheer cloud cold dark dear deep delight dost doth dream earth fair fall farewell fear feather'd flowers fluttering gale gentle give glow green grove hand happy Hark hast hath head hear heard heart heaven hill hope hour Lark leaves light lives lonely look merry morning Nature nest never night Nightingale notes o'er once Petrel plumes rest Robin round seek seen shade shalt silent sing skies Skylark soft song soon sorrow soul sound spread spring stars stormy strain summer Swallow sweet tears tell thee thine things thou thou art thought tree tuneful voice wandering warm waves wide wild wind wing winter woods young
Page 101 - Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.
Page 43 - Wild is thy lay and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth, Where, on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying ? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
Page 25 - ... Most musical, most melancholy"* bird ! A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought! In nature there is nothing melancholy. But some night-wandering man, whose heart was pierced With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, Or slow distemper, or neglected love, (And so, poor wretch ! filled all things with himself And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he, First named these notes a melancholy strain : And many a poet echoes the conceit...
Page 45 - To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen. And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.
Page 29 - A bird's nest. Mark it well ! — within, without ; No tool had he that wrought — no knife to cut, No nail to fix — no bodkin to insert — No glue to join ; his little beak was all. And yet how neatly finished ! What nice hand. With every implement and means of art, And twenty years...
Page 44 - O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice...
Page 102 - Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.
Page 11 - You think no doubt he sits and muses On future broken bones and bruises, If he should chance to fall ; No, not a single thought like that Employs his philosophic pate, Or troubles it at all.
Page 120 - What time the daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hear; Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year ! Delightful visitant ! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers. The Schoolboy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, And imitates thy lay.