O thou sweet Lark that in the heaven so high
Twinklest thy wings and singest merrily,
I watch thee soaring with no mean delight,
And when at last I turn mine aching eye
That lags, how far below thy lofty flight,
Still silently receive thy melody.
O thou sweet lark, that I had wings like thee!
Not for the joy it were in yon blue light
Upward to plunge, and from my heavenly height
Gaze on the creeping multitude below,
But that I soon would wing my eager flight
To that loved place where Fancy even now
Has fled, and Hope looks onward thro' a tear,
Counting the weary hours that keep her here.
Oh! 'tis a soft and sorrow-soothing sight,
The mellow moon at evening to behold
Lay on the level lake her liquid light,
And gild the green grove with her yellow gold.
Sweet to the lonely wanderer then to walk
With none but solitude, and only talk
Of his own sorrows, by himself, alone.
To hear poor Philomela's plaintive tale,
And hearken oft upon the dank night gale,
In sudden whiz the drowsy beetle's drone. Sweet then to hear the owlet in the dale
Hoot from the hollow of her hallow'd throne, And trace so tranquil in her track of trail,
Slow sliding o'er her slime, the slippery sleek slug snail.
Harriot, the smile that plays upon thy cheek
Whene'er I greet thee, and the thrilling glance.
Of those bright orbs, that wakes me from the trance
Where reason ponders, to my faint heart speak
Love's language; ardently could I rejoice
In such sweet tokens, but I fear thine eye
Has learnt to beam with love's hypocrisy,
And siren wiles dwell in thy tuneful voice.
For now with studied eloquence thy tongue
Yields to its task, that tongue which to my sense
Was wont e'erwhile such magic charms dispense,
That on thy lips my trembling spirit hung,
Waiting new life.-Oh free me from my pain,
Speak as of yore, that I may love again.
If thou didst feed on western plains of yore,
Or waddle wide with flat and flabby feet
Over some Cambrian mountain's plashy moor,
Or find in farmer's yard a safe retreat
From gipsey thieves, and foxes sly and fleet,
If thy grey quills by lawyer guided, trace
Deeds big with ruin to some wretched race,
Or love-sick poet's sonnet, sad and sweet,
Wailing the rigour of some lady fair;
Or of the drudge of housemaid's daily toil,
Cobwebs and dust thy pinion white besoil,
Departed Goose! I neither know nor care. But this I know, that thou wert very fine, Season'd with sage, and onions, and port wine.
Lie lightly on her bosom, gentle earth!
For poor Amelia's bosom was the seat
Of maiden purity, and once it beat
With nature's best affections; but her worth
Bloom'd like the desert flower. Hard Poverty
His heavy hand upon her race had laid,
No friend, no dear congenial soul had she,
Her cold, coarse comrades drove the wretched maid To lonely thought. The feelings that had blest
A fellow heart, imprison'd in her breast,
Were tortures there, and on her life they prey'd. Poor victim of misfortune from her birth,
She pin'd away and died, and is at rest.
Lie lightly on her bosom, gentle earth!
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