ligence. Let us never pass a bee-hive with indifference, and without reflection. Let us at least admire them; and that admiration may lead us to sublime thoughts. If we wish to meditate on our Creator, we shall find him here: this interesting spectacle may lead us to him; and cause us to adore his wisdom, power, and goodness, in the production of these little creatures."- Sturm. THOU wert out betimes, thou busy, busy bee! As abroad I took my early way, On the meadow, with dew so gray, Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy bee! When the primrose of evening was ready to burst, Still on thy golden stores intent, Thy summer in keeping and hoarding is spent, Wise lesson this for me, thou busy, busy bee. When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone, Thy master comes for the spoil; XIV. THE SKYLARK. SOUTHEY. "In early spring, the cheerful and exhilarating song of the skylark, fresh as the season, is the admiration of all. The bird rises on quivering wing, almost perpendicularly, singing as he flies, and gaining an elevation that is quite extraordinary; yet so powerful is his voice, that his wild joyous notes may be heard distinctly, when the pained eye can trace his course no longer. An ear well tuned to his song can even then determine by the notes, whether the bird is still ascending, remaining stationary, or on the descent. When at a considerable height, should a hawk appear in sight, or the well-known voice of his mate reach his ear, the wings are closed, and he drops to the earth with the rapidity of a stone. Occasionally the skylark sings when on the ground; but his most lively strains are poured forth during his flight; and even in confinement, this would-be tenant of the free air tramples his turf, and flutters his wings while singing, as if muscular motion were with him a necessary accompaniment to his music."- Yarrell. 225 THE SKYLARK. HAIL to thee, blithe spirit! 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 brightening, Thou dost float and run, Like an embodied 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 As, when night is bare, The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 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, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. Like a high-born maiden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower? 2 Like a glow-worm golden Its aërial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view. Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach me, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine : I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphal chant, Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt— A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Langour cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. THE SKYLARK. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal strearn? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! 3 Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 1." Shelley chose the measure of this poem with great felicity. The earnest hurry of the four short lines, followed by the long effusiveness of the Alexandrine, expresses the eagerness and continuity of the lark."-Leigh Hunt. "Shelley's Skylark is perfectly buoyant with the very music it commemorates."-Tuckerman. "The ode to the Skylark is the very warbling of the triumphant bird."Shaw. 2. "The music of the whole stanza is of the loveliest sweetness; of energy in the midst of softness; of dulcitude and variety. Not a sound of a vowel in the quatrain resembles that of another, except in the rhymes; while the very 227 SHELLEY. sameness or repetition of the sounds in the Alexandrine intimates the revolvement and continuity of the music which the lady is playing, observe, for instance, (for nothing is too minute to dwell upon in such beauty), the contrast of the i and o in high-born'; the difference of the a in maiden' from that in palace' the strong opposition of maiden to tower (making the rhyme more vigorous in proportion to the general softness); then the new differences in soothing, love-laden, soul, and secret, all diverse from one another, and from the whole strain; and finally, the strain itself, winding up in the Alexandrine with a cadence of particular repetitions, which constitutes nevertheless a new difference on that account "IF ever household affections and loves are graceful things, they are graceful in the poor. The ties that bind the wealthy and the proud to home may be forged on earth, but those which link the poor man to his humble hearth are of the true metal, and bear the stamp of heaven. The man of high descent may love the halls and lands of his inheritance as a part of himself, as trophies of his birth and power; the poor man's attachment to the tenement he holds, which strangers have held before, and may to-morrow occupy again, has a worthier root, struck deep into a purer soil. His household gods are of flesh and blood, with no alloy of silver, gold, or precious stones; he has no property but in the affections of his own heart; and when they endear bare floors and walls, despite of rags and toil, and scanty meals, that man has his love of home from God, and his rude hut becomes a solemn place."-Dickens. OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered, When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. |