The summer 's in her ark, and this sunny-pinion'd day Is commission'd to remark whether Winter holds her sway; Go back, thou dove of peace, with the myrtle on thy wing, Say, that floods and tempests cease and the world is ripe for spring. Thou hast fann'd the sleeping Earth till her dreams are all of flowers, And the waters look in mirth for their overhanging bowers; The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves, And the very skies to glisten in the hope of summer eves. Thy vivifying spell has been felt beneath the wave, Have started from their sleep at the summons of the The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the hills, INVOCATION TO THE CUCKOO. O, PURSUIVANT and herald of the spring! Whether thou still dost dwell In some rose-laurel'd dell Of that charm'd island, whose magician king Bade all its rocks and caves, Woods, winds, and waves, Thrill to the dulcet chaunt of Ariel, Until he broke the spell, And cast his wand into the shuddering sea, O hither, hither fleet, Upon the south wind sweet, And soothe us with thy vernal melody! Or whether to the redolent Azores, Amid whose tufted sheaves The floral goddess weaves Her garland, breathing on the glades and shores Intoxicating air, Truant! thou dost repair; Or lingerest still in that meridian nest, Where myriad piping throats Rival the warbler's notes, The saffron namesakes of those islands blest, O hither, hither wing Thy flight, and to our longing woodlands sing. Or in those sea-girt gardens dost thou dwell, Of plantain, cocoa, palm, And that red tree, whose balm Fumed in the holocausts of Israel; Beneath banana shades, Guava, and fig-tree glades, Painting thy plumage in the sapphirine hue Thrown from the heron blue, Or rays of the prismatic parroquet, O, let the perfumed breeze From those Hesperides Waft thee once more our eager ears to greet! For lo! the young leaves flutter in the south, As if they tried their wings, While the bee's trumpet brings News of each bud that pouts its honied mouth ; Blue-bells, yellow-cups, jonquils, Lilies wild and daffodils, Gladden our meads in intertangled wreath; The sun enamour'd lies, Watching the violets' eyes On every bank, and drinks their luscious breath; With open lips the thorn Proclaims that May is born, And darest thou, bird of spring, that summons scorn? |