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The stream through richest pastures winding, And tender corn,—of these reminding,
It seems to speak of all to me
In vocal poetry
And but that mortal men must sleep,
station here could keep The live-long night, a listening to thy tale. But, ever-wakeful nightingale,
When dost thou suspend thy numbers,
And yield to quiet slumbers?
Contending with thee from the sky,
Thou beneath, and he on high,
A fugue of wondrous melody.
Under the wheat, in lowly nest,
Will marvel at thy tuneful riot,
Breaking his gentle partner’s rest. But when his matin-bell he springs
At earliest dawn, untired thy skill, While his loud orisons he sings,
He'll hear thee at thy vespers still.
But thine is merry chanting, wakeful one,
There in thy sylvan dormitory. Oh, didst thou sing alone,
I could believe the tender story, Which makes thy sweet nocturnal ditty,
The tale of grief and pity.
Nor could I thus have staid content
To list thy touching merriment,
Into the lifelessness of shade,
Till thought assumes a graver tone,
Yes, there is something in thy notes of gladness,
But thou, sweet bird, art near thy mate,
And mine ev'n now for me doth wait;
And therefore, when the landscape fades,
And lovers sigh, and mourners weep,
I love to hear thy shout and call,
The sort of general commúning Among thy fellow-songsters all,
As though they were for concert tuning,
Till each has fix'd
And the woods ring with minstrelsy.
Till, warn’d by some far distant chime,
And by their songs express, Feelings so much their powers above,
SUMMER is come; he with the eye of flame
And lordly brow, whence, in his angry mood, Flash the blue lightnings : he is come to claim
His bride, the gentle Spring, whom late he woo'd
With softest airs. See how his fervid breath
Has call’d the roses up on her chaste cheek!
And now to him the sceptre she with meek Aud tender smile resigns. Her woodland wreath Is faded, but the garden's gay parterre
Is rich with gorgeous hues; and glorious things Haunt the cool stream, and flutter in the air,
Resplendent forms: the flowers have taken wings. They do not die-there's nothing in Creation, That dies; succession all and wondrous transmigra
Now day survives the sun. The pale grey skies
A sort of duil and dubious lustre keep,
Slumbering, and gazing on me in her sleep,
The sun is set, yet not a star is seen :