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,
Pleased I my 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?

The lark, beyond his usual hours,

Contending with thee from the sky,

Seems exerting all his powers,

Singing of corn, and thou of flowers-
Thou beneath, and he on high,

A fugue of wondrous melody.

Thou 'lt sing him down, and he so quiet

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,

And watch the soften'd landscape fade

Into the lifelessness of shade,

Till thought assumes a graver tone,

Had I been doom'd to sing alone.

Yes, there is something in thy notes of gladness,

To strike the sad with deeper sadness;

As merry-pealing bells will borrow,

To Sorrow's ear, the tones of sorrow.
But thou, sweet bird, art near thy mate,
And mine ev'n now for me doth wait;
And therefore, when the landscape fades,

And stars come brightly through the shades,
And sheep are penn'd, and hinds go sleep,
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 upon his tree,

And the woods ring with minstrelsy.

I love, yet not alone, to listen,

Where through the leaves stars peep and glisten,

While a soft hum the waters keep,

As 'twere the breath of Nature's sleep;

Till, warn'd by some far distant chime,
Of the forgotten flight of Time,

We homeward haste, nor sad, nor merry,

But, thanks to thee, heart-happy-very ;
And wondering much how birds should guess,
And by their songs express,

Feelings so much their powers above,

As mutual joy and love.

SUMMER:

IN FOUR SONNETS.

I.

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 And 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

tion.

II.

Now day survives the sun.

The pale grey

skies

A sort of duil and dubious lustre keep,
As with their own light shining. Nature lies
Slumbering, and gazing on me in her sleep,
So still, so mute, with fix'd and soul-less eyes.
The sun is set, yet not a star is seen:
Distinct the landscape, save where intervene