With the morning's roseate Spirit, Or survey the bright dominions In the gorgeous colours drest, Flung from off the purple pinions, Evening spreads throughout the west! Thine are all the choral fountains Of the untrodden lunar mountains; To Niphate's top invited, For the power of hills is on thee, III. TO THE CUCKOO. O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, That seems to fill the whole air's space, As loud far off as 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, The same whom in my School-boy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. O blessed Bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for Thee! IV. A NIGHT-PIECE. THE sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Bent earthwards; he looks up-the clouds are split The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Yet vanish not! the wind is in the tree, But they are silent; - still they roll along Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, At length the Vision closes; and the mind, |