TO THE CUCKOO. O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice: O Cuckoo shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice? While I am lying on the grass, At once far off, and near! I hear thee babbling to the vale Of sunshine and of flowers; And unto me thou bring'st a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. O blessed Bird! the earth we pace An unsubstantial, fairy place; That is fit home for thee! YEW-TREES. THERE is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale, Joined in one solemn and capacious grove; Huge trunks and each particular trunk a growth Upcoiling, and inveterately convolved; Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked May meet at noontide-Fear and trembling Hope, Silence and Foresight-Death the Skeleton As in a natural temple scattered o'er NUTTING. It seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out), Motley accoutrement-of power to smile At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth, Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, The banquet-or beneath the trees I sat A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been blessed With sudden happiness beyond all hope. |