To a Skylark He lay down in his grief to die 1519 Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861] TO A SKYLARK Up with me! up with me into the clouds! Up with me, up with me into the clouds! With clouds and sky about thee ringing, That spot which seems so to thy mind! I have walked through wildernesses dreary Had I now the wings of a Fairy, Up to thee would I fly. There is madness about thee, and joy divine In that song of thine; Lift me, guide me high and high To thy banqueting-place in the sky. Joyous as morning Thou art laughing and scorning; Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest. And, though little troubled with sloth, Drunken Lark! thou would'st be loth To be such a traveler as I. Happy, happy Liver, With a soul as strong as a mountain river Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven, I, with my fate contented, will plod on, And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done. William Wordsworth (1770-1850] TO A SKYLARK ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? To the last point of vision, and beyond, Mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine: Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home! William Wordsworth [1770-1850] THE SKYLARK BIRD of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Blest is thy dwelling-place O to abide in the desert with thee! Wild is thy lay and loud, The Skylark Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Blest is thy dwelling-place O to abide in the desert with thee! 1521 James Hogg [1770-1835] THE SKYLARK How the blithe Lark runs up the golden stair That leans through cloudy gates from Heaven to Earth, And all alone in the empyreal air Fills it with jubilant sweet songs of mirth; How far he seems, how far With the light upon his wings, Is it a bird, or star That shines, and sings? What matter if the days be dark and frore, He peeps, and sees behind And now he dives into a rainbow's rivers, In streams of gold and purple he is drowned, Shrilly the arrows of his song he shivers, As though the stormy drops were turned to sound; He scales a cloudy tower, His fast notes shower. Let every wind be hushed, that I may hear Back the gold gates again, All Heaven to men! So the victorious Poet sings alone, And fills with light his solitary home, And through that glory sees new worlds foreshown, With thrills of golden chords, What if his hair be gray, his eyes be dim, If wealth forsake him, and if friends be cold, Wonder unbars her thousand gates to him, Truth never fails, nor Beauty waxes old; More than he tells his eyes Behold, his spirit hears, Of grief, and joy, and sighs 'Twixt joy and tears. Blest is the man who with the sound of song To a Skylark Darker are the abodes Of Kings, though his be poor, Singing thou scalest Heaven upon thy wings, Far up the sunny streams, Unseen, I hear his song, I see his dreams. 1523 Frederick Tennyson [1807-1898] TO A SKYLARK HAIL to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, 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 singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, 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. |