Unutterable love. Sound needed none, Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank The spectacle; sensation, soul, and form All melted into him; they swallowed up His animal being; in them did he live, And by them did he live; they were his life. In such access of mind, in such high hour Of visitation from the living God, Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired. No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request; Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him; it was blessedness and love. Queen art thou still for each gay plant Where the slim wild deer roves; And served in depths where fishes haunt Their own mysterious groves. AND if, on this thy natal morn, The pole, from which thy name Hath not departed, stands forlorn Of song and dance and game, Still from the village-green a vow Aspires to thee addrest, Wherever peace is on the brow, Or love within the breast. Yes! where love nestles thou canst teach The soul to love the more; Hush, feeble lyre! weak words, refuse The service to prolong! To you exulting thrush the Muse Intrusts the imperfect song; His voice shall chant, in accents clear, Throughout the livelong day, Till the first silver star appear, The sovereignty of May. WORDSWORTH. CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING. GET up, get up, for shame; the blooming Morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colors through the air; Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east, Above an hour since, yet you not drest, Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green, and trimm'd with trees; see how Devotion gives each house a bough, Or branch; each porch, each doore, ere this, An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove; As if here were those cooler shades of love. And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. HERRICK. E'en now, while walking down the rural lane, He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. From the Academy, whose belfry crowned The Hill of Science with its vane of brass, Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass, And all absorbed in reveries profound Of fair Almira in the upper class, Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, As pure as water, and as good as bread. And next the Deacon issued from his door, In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as snow; A suit of sable bombazine he wore: His form was ponderous, and his step was slow; There never was so wise a man before: He seemed the incarnate "Well, Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart To speak out what was in him, clear and strong, Alike regardless of their smile or frown, And quite determined not to be laughed down. "Plato, anticipating the reviewers, From his republic banished without pity The poets: in this little town of yours, You put to death, by means of a committee, The ballad-singers and the troubadours, The street-musicians of the heav enly city, The birds, who make sweet music for us all In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. 66 The thrush, that carols at the dawn of day From the green steeples of the piny wood; The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay, Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, Flooding with melody the neighborhood; Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song, "You slay them all! and wherefore? For the gain Of a scant handful, more or less, of wheat, Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, Scratched up at random by industrious feet Searching for worm or weevil after rain, Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet As are the songs these uninvited guests Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. |