imagine a little bird perched upon a bough and speak to that one little bird, he would, at least, become somewhat patronizing; but when Wordsworth says, "Oh, blithe newcomer!" meaning the cuckoo, he refers to the cuckoo of the world, the universal bird, and therefore it awakens the imagination and makes you live with him into the appreciation of this wonderful bird which is singing its melody around the world. Therefore, the lyric is exceedingly imaginative, joyous, and spontaneous and should be rendered directly or indirectly to the audience.

THE SKYLARK

Bird of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless,

James Hogg.

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place:

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay, and loud,

Far in the downy cloud;

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth!
Where, on thy dewy wing-

Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven; thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day
Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar singing away!

Then when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling place

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

LYRIC

David M. Moir.

Awake ere the morning dawn,-skylark, arise!
The last of the stars hath waxed dim in the skies;
The peak of the mountain is purpled in light,

And the grass with the night dew is diamonded white;
The young flowers at morning's call open their eyes-
Then up ere the break of day, skylark, arise!

Earth starts like a sluggard half roused from a dream;
Pale and ghost-like the mist floats away from the stream,
And the cataract hoarsely, that all the night long
Poured forth to the desolate darkness its song,
Now softens to music as brighten the skies-
Then up ere the dawn of day, skylark, arise!

Arise from the clover, and up to the cloud,

Ere the sun leaves his chamber in majesty proud,
And, ere his light lowers to earth's meaner things,
Catch the stainless effulgence of heaven on thy wings,
While thy gaze as thou soarest and singest shall feast
On the innermost shrine of the uttermost east.

Up, up with a loud voice of singing! the bee
Will be out to the bloom, and the bird to the tree;
The trout to the pool, and the par to the rill,
The flock to the plain, and the deer to the hill;
Soon the marsh will resound to the plover's lone cries-
Then up ere the dawn of day, skylark, arise!

Up, up with thy praise-breathing anthem! alone
The drowsyhead, man, on his bed slumbers prone;
The stars may go down, and the sun from the deep
Burst forth, still his hands they are folded in sleep,
Let the least in creation the greatest despise
Then up to heaven's threshold, blithe skylark, arise!

TO THE CUCKOO

William Wordsworth.

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
Thy twofold shout I hear;
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near.

Though babbling only to the vale,

Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me 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 schoolboy 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 thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.

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
Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, faery place;

That is fit home for thee!

CROSSING THE BAR

Sunset and evening star,

Alfred Tennyson.

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

VI. The Ode

The Ode is the universal expression of the individual idea in rhythmic form, personally, that is, the greater part of the ode resembles in many respects the Lyric, is filled with the same spirit, except that there is always a personal touch of regret or sorrow which enters into an ode, and differentiates it from the lyric; illustration:-Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind," The portion which changes the "Ode to the West Wind," and makes it primarily an ode rather than a lyric, is where the personal touch comes in the line:-"I fall upon the thorns of life; I bleed." This transforms the buoyant, happy thought into one of regret and thus changes its form.

The Ode should be delivered either directly or indirectly to the audience with the element of absolute spontaneity, regardless of any surroundings or conditions, allowing the mind to dwell wholly upon the thought and the atmosphere created by the poem, until the interpreter becomes a part of it.

ODE TO THE WEST WIND

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; Hear, oh, hear!

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread

On the blue surface of thine airy surge,

Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge

Of the horizon to the Zenith's height

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere

Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh, hear!