Blest is the man who with the sound of song
Can charm away the heartache, and forget
The frost of Penury, and the stings of Wrong,
And drown the fatal whisper of Regret !
Darker are the abodes
Of Kings, tho' his be poor,
While Fancies, like the Gods,
Pass thro' his door.
Singing thou scalest Heaven upon thy wings,
Thou liftest a glad heart into the skies;
He maketh his own sunrise, while he sings,
And turns the dusty Earth to Paradise;
I see thee sail along
Far up the sunny streams,
Unseen, I hear his song,
I see his dreams.
THE GIRT WOAK TREE THAT'S IN THE DELL
The girt woak tree that's in the dell !
There's noo tree I do love so well;
Vor times an' times when I wer young,
I there've a-climb'd, an' there've a-zwung,
An' pick'd the eäcorns green, a-shed
In wrestlèn storms vrom his broad head.
An' down below's the cloty brook
Where I did vish with line an' hook,
An' beät, in playsome dips and zwims,
The foamy stream, wi' white-skinn'd lim's.
An' there my mother nimbly shot
Her knittèn-needles, as she zot
At evenèn down below the wide
Woak's head, wi' father at her zide.
An' I've a played wi' many a bwoy,
That's now a man an' gone awoy;
Zoo I do like noo tree so well
'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.
An' there, in leäter years, I roved
Wi' thik poor maïd I fondly lov’d,—
The maïd too feäir to die so soon,-
When evenèn twilight, or the moon,
Cast light enough 'ithin the pleäce
To show the smiles upon her feäce,
Wi' eyes so clear's the glassy pool,
An' lips an' cheäks so soft as wool.
There han' in han', wi' bosoms warm,
Wi' love that burn'd but thought noo harm,
Below the wide-bough'd tree we past
The happy hours that went too vast;
An' though she'll never be my wife,
She's still my leäden star o' life.
She's gone: an' she've a-left to me
Her mem'ry in the girt woak tree;
Zoo I do love noo tree so well
'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.
An' oh! mid never ax nor hook
Be brought to spweil his steätely look ;
Nor ever roun' his ribby zides
Mid cattle rub ther heäiry hides;
Nor pigs rout up his turf, but keep
His Iwonesome sheäde vor harmless sheep;
An' let en grow, an' let en spread,
An' let en live when I be dead.
But oh! if men should come an' vell
The girt woak tree that's in the dell,
An' build his planks 'ithin the zide
O'zome girt ship to plough the tide,
Then, life or death! I'd goo to sea,
A sailèn wi' the girt woak tree :
An' I upon his planks would stand,
An' die a-fightèn vor the land,—
The land so dear,—the land so free,—
The land that bore the girt woak tree;
Vor I do love noo tree so well
'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell. W. Barnes
And has the Spring's all glorious eye
No lesson to the mind?
The birds that cleave the golden sky-
Things to the earth resign'd-
Wild flowers that dance to every wind-
Do they no memory leave behind?
Aye, flowers! The very name of flowers,
That bloom in wood and glen,
Brings Spring to me in Winter's hours,
And childhood's dreams again.
The primrose on the woodland lea
Was more than gold and lands to me.
The violets by the woodland side
Are thick as they could thrive;
I've talk'd to them with childish pride
As things that were alive :
I find them now in my distress-
They seem as sweet, yet valueless.
The cowslips on the meadow lea,
How have I run for them!
I look'd with wild and childish glee
Upon each golden gem :
And when they bow'd their heads so shy
I laugh'd, and thought they danced for joy.
And when a man in early years,
How sweet they used to come,
And give me tales of smiles and tears,
And thoughts more dear than home: Secrets which words would then reproveThey told the names of early love.
The primrose turn'd a babbling flower
Within its sweet recess :
I blush'd to see its secret bower,
And turn'd her name to bless. The violets said the eyes were blue : I loved, and did they tell me true?
ODE ON A FAIR SPRING MORNING
Oh, see how glorious show,
On this fair morn in May, the clear-cut hills,
The dewy lawns, the hawthorns white,
Argent on plains of gold, the growing light
Pure as when first on the young earth
The faint warm sunlight came to birth.
There is a nameless air
Of sweet renewal over all which fills
The earth and sky with life, and everywhere,
Before the scarce seen sun begins to glow,
The birds awake which slumber'd all night long,
And with a gush of song,
First doubting of their strain, then full and wide
Raise their fresh hymns thro' all the country side; Already, above the dewy clover,
The soaring lark begins to hover
Over his mate's low nest;
And soon, from childhood's early rest
In hall and cottage, to the casement rise
The little ones with their fresh morning eyes.
AN EVENING SCENE
The sheep-bell tolleth curfew-time;
The gnats, a busy rout,
Fleck the warm air; the dismal owl
Shouteth a sleepy shout;
The voiceless bat, more felt than seen,
Is flitting round about.
The aspen leaflets scarcely stir;
The river seems to think;
Athwart the dusk, broad primroses
Look coldly from the brink,
Where, listening to the freshet's noise,
The quiet cattle drink.
The bees boom past; the white moths rise
Like spirits from the ground;
The gray flies hum their weary tune,
A distant, dream-like sound;
And far, far off, to the slumb'rous eve,
Bayeth an old guardhound.
An hour, and this majestic day is gone;
Another messenger flown in fleet quest
Of Time. Behold! one wingéd cloud alone,
Like a spread dragon overhangs the west,
Bathing the splendour of his crimson crest
In the sun's last suffusion, he hath roll'd
His vast length o'er the dewy sky, imprest
With the warm dyes of many-colour'd gold,
Which, now the sun is sunk, wax faint, and gray, and
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