With thy clear, keen joyance Never came near thee; Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 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 stream? 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, That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now! FISHER SONG. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. HURRAH! the seaward breezes Sweep down the bay amain; Now, brothers, for the ice-bergs Along the low, black shore! Where like snow the gannet's feathers Hurrah! for the Red Island With the white cross on its crown! With its mountains bare and brown! Where the caribou's tall antlers Though the mist upon our jackets Though the fog be dark around us, In the darkness as in daylight, And beneath us is his hand! Hurrah!-hurrah!- the west wind Comes freshening down the bay, The rising sails are filling; Give way, my lads, give way! Leave the coward landsman clinging To the dull earth like a weed, The stars of heaven shall guide us The breath of heaven shall speed! TO NIGHT. BLANCO WHITE. MYSTERIOUS night! When our first parent knew Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind? TO A SWALLOW BUILDING UNDER THE EAVES AT CRAIGENPUTTOCK. JANE WELSH CARLYLE. THOU, too, hast travelled, little fluttering thing, But much, my little bird, could'st thou but tell, For thou hast passed fair places in thy flight, Of all the varied scenes that met thine eye, Did fortune try thee? was thy little purse Ah no, thou need'st not gold, thou happy one! What was it then? Some mystic turn of thought For the world's loveliness, till thou art grown Nay, if thy mind be sound, I need not ask, A well-laid scheme doth that small head contain, In truth, I rather take it thou hast got |