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None gazeth-save the pale-eyed stars and thee,

What time thou sitt'st in moveless reverie,
When all the voices of the day are gone.
Rest thee, once more, unmindful of the tread

Of one who loves like thee this silent scene
For its wide silence! Seek thine ancient bed,
There come no saddening dreams of what hath

been. Thou'rt on the wing, and chilly-finger'd fear Holds

my

best reason as if ill were near.

THE LARK.

Shakspeare.

Lo! here the gentle Lark, weary of rest,

From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast

The sun arises in his majesty ; Who doth the world so gloriously behold, That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold.

THE SWALLOW.

Cowley.

Foolish prater, what dost thou
So early at my window do,
With thy tuneless serenade ?
Well’t had been had Tereus made
Thee as dumb as Philomel;
There his knife had done but well.
In thy undiscover'd nest
Thou dost all the winter rest,
And dreamest o'er thy summer joys,
Free from the stormy season's noise ;
Free from the ill thou'st done to me;
Who disturbs or seeks out thee?
Hadst thou all the charming notes
Of the wood's poetic throats,
All thy art could never pay
What thou hast ta'en from me away.
Cruel bird ! thou'st ta’en away
A dream out of my arms to-day ;
A dream that ne'er must equall'd be
By all that waking eyes may see.
Thou, this damage to repair,
Nothing half so sweet or fair,
Nothing half so good can'st bring,
Though men say thou bring'st the spring.

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I love to see the little Goldfinch pluck
The groundsel's feather'd seed, and twit, and twit;
And then, in bower of apple-blossoms perch'a,
Trim his gay suit, and pay us with a song.
I would not hold him pris’ner for the world.

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HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove !

Thou messenger of Spring !
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,

And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,

Thy certain voice we hear ;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,

Or mark thy rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet

From birds among the bowers.

The school-boy, wandering through the wood,

To pull the primrose gay,
Starts the new voice of Spring to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom

Thou fliest thy vocal vale ; An annual guest in other lands,

Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green

Thy sky is ever clear ;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year!

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee !

We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe,

Companions of the Spring.

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