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Ah ! little doth the young-one dream When full of play and childish cares, What power is in his wildest scream Heard by his mother unawares ! He knows it not, he cannot guess ; Years to a mother bring distress; But do not make her love the less. Neglect me! no, I suffer'd long From that ill thought ; and being blind Said * Pride shall help me in my wrong: Kind mother have I been, as kind As ever breathed :' and that is true ; I've wet my path with tears like dew, Weeping for him when no one knew. My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, Hopeless of honour and of gain, Oh! do not dread thy mother's door ; Think not of me with grief and pain : I now can see with better eyes ; And worldly grandeur I despise And fortune with her gifts and lies. Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings, And blasts of heaven will aid their flight ; They mount-how short a voyage brings The wanderers back to their delight ! Chains tie us down by land and sea ; And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee. Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men ; Or thou upon a desert thrown Inheritest the lion's den ; Or hast been summon'd to the deep Thou, thou, and all thy mates to keep An incommunicable sleep. I look for ghosts : but none will force Their way to me; 'tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead;

For surely then I should have sight
Of him I wait for day and night
With love and longings infinite.
My apprehensions come in crowds ;
I dread the rustling of the grass ;
The very shadows of the clouds
Have power to shake me as they pass :
I question things, and do not find
One that will answer to my mind ;
And all the world appears unkind.
Beyond participation lie
My troubles, and beyond relief:
If

any chance to heave a sigh
They pity me, and not my grief.
Then come to me, my Son, or send
Some tidings that my woes may end !
I have no other earthly friend.

W. Wordsworth

CCLXXXV

HUNTING SONG

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day;
All the jolly chase is here
With hawk' and horse and hunting-spear ;
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily merrily mingle they,
“Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming ;
And foresters have busy been
To track the buck in thicket green ;
Now we come to chant our lay
* Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

6

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away ;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot and tall of size ;
We can show the marks he made
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd ;
You shall see him brought to bay ;

Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
Louder, louder chant the lay
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth and mirth and glee
Run a course as well as we;'
Time, stern huntsman ! who can baulk,
Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk ;
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay!

Sir W. Scott

CCLXXXVI

TO THE SKYLARK Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ? Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! To the last point of vision, and beyond Mount, daring warbler !—that love-prompted strain _”Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bondThrills not the less the bosom of the plain : Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing All independent of the leafy Spring. Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; A privacy of glorious light is thine, Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine ; Type of the wise, who soar, but never roamTrue to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.

W. Wordsworth

T

CCLXXXVII

TO A SKYLARK
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit !

Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it

Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire,

The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singes:.

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun
O’er which clouds are brightening,

Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight ;
Like a star of heaven

In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight :

Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is over,

flow'd.
What thou art we know not ;

What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody ;-

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not :

Like a high-born maiden

In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden

Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower :

Like a glow-worm golden

In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden

Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from

the view :

Like a rose embower'd

In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower'd,

Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingéd

thieves.

Sound of vernal showers

On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken'd lowers,

All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine :
I have never heard

Praise of love or wine
That panted furth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymencal

Or triumphal chaunt
Match'd with thine, would be all

But an empty vaunt-
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

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