"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,Across the sands of Dee."The western wind was wild and dark with foam,And all alone went she.The western tide crept up along the sand,And o'er and o'er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see.The rolling mist came down and hid the land:And never home came she."O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—A tress of golden hair,A drownèd maiden's hair,Above the nets at sea?"Was never salmon yet that shone so fairAmong the stakes of Dee.They row'd her in across the rolling foamThe cruel crawling foam,The cruel hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea.But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,Across the sands of Dee.—Charles Kingsley.
—Charles Kingsley.
Faintly as tolls the evening chime,Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time;Soon as the woods on shore look dim,We'll sing at St. Anne's our parting hymn.Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast;The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.Why should we yet our sail unfurl?There is not a breath the blue wave to curl;But when the wind blows off the shore,Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.Ottawa's tide! this trembling moonShall see us float over thy surges soon:Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,Oh! grant us cool heavens, and favouring airs.Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.—Thomas Moore.
—Thomas Moore.
O wedding-guest! this soul hath beenAlone on a wide, wide sea:So lonely 'twas, that God himselfScarce seemed there to be.O sweeter than the marriage-feast,'Tis sweeter far to me,To walk together to the kirkWith a goodly company!To walk together to the kirk,And all together pray,While each to his great Father bends,Old men, and babes, and loving friends,And youths and maidens gay!Farewell, farewell! but this I tellTo thee, thou Wedding-Guest!He prayeth well, who loveth wellBoth man and bird and beast.He prayeth best, who loveth bestAll things both great and small;For the dear God who loveth us,He made and loveth all.—Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
Now fades the last long streak of snow,Now burgeons every maze of quickAbout the flowering squares, and thickBy ashen roots the violets blow.Now rings the woodland loud and long,The distance takes a lovelier hue,And drown'd in yonder living blueThe lark becomes a sightless song.Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,The flocks are whiter down the vale,And milkier every milky sailOn winding stream or distant sea;Where now the seamew pipes, or divesIn yonder greening gleam, and flyThe happy birds, that change their skyTo build and brood; that live their lives,From land to land; and in my breastSpring wakens too; and my regretBecomes an April violet,And buds and blossoms like the rest.—Alfred Lord Tennyson.
—Alfred Lord Tennyson.
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,And into the midnight we galloped abreast.Not a word to each other; we kept the great paceNeck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew nearLokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;At Düffield, 'twas morning as plain as could be;And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,So, Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,And against him the cattle stood black every one,To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past,And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,With resolute shoulders, each butting awayThe haze, as some bluff river headland its spray;And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent backFor my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;And one eye's black intelligence,—ever that glanceO'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anonHis fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,We'll remember at Aix"—for one heard the quick wheezeOf her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!""How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roanRolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;And there was my Roland to bear the whole weightOf the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.And all I remember is—friends flocking roundAs I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.—Robert Browning.
—Robert Browning.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold,And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,That host with their banners at sunset were seen;Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still.And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride:And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal,And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.—Lord Byron.
—Lord Byron.
He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most HighShall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress:My God; in him will I trust.Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler,And from the noisome pestilence.He shall cover thee with his feathers,And under his wings shalt thou trust:His truth shall be thy shield and buckler.Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night;Nor for the arrow that flieth by day;Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness;Nor for the destruction that wasteth by noon-day.A thousand shall fall at thy side,And ten thousand at thy right hand;But it shall not come nigh thee.Only with thine eyes shalt thou beholdAnd see the reward of the wicked.Because thou hast made the Lord, which is my refuge,Even the most High, thy habitation;There shall no evil befall thee,Neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling.For he shall give his angels charge over thee,To keep thee in all thy ways.They shall bear thee up in their hands,Lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.Thou shalt tread upon the lion and adder:The young lion and the dragon shalt thou trample under feet.Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him:I will set him on high, because he hath known my name.He shall call upon me, and I will answer him:I will be with him in trouble;I will deliver him, and honour him.With long life will I satisfy him,And show him my salvation.—King David.
—King David.
Who would true valour seeLet him come hither.One here will constant be,Come wind, come weather:There's no discouragementShall make him once relentHis first-avow'd intentTo be a Pilgrim.Whoso beset him roundWith dismal stories,Do but themselves confound;His strength the more is.No lion can him fright;He'll with a giant fight;But he will have a rightTo be a Pilgrim.Nor enemy, nor fiend,Can daunt his spirit;He knows he at the endShall Life inherit:—Then, fancies, fly away;He'll not fear what men say;He'll labour night and day,To be a Pilgrim.—John Bunyan.
—John Bunyan.
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,From the seas and the streams;I bear light shade for the leaves when laidIn their noon-day dreams.From my wings are shaken the dews that wakenThe sweet birds every one,When rocked to rest on their Mother's breast,As she dances in the sun.I wield the flail of the lashing hail,And whiten the green plains under;And then again I dissolve it in rain,And laugh as I pass in thunder.I sift the snow on the mountains below,And their great pines groan aghast;And all the night 'tis my pillow white,While I sleep in the arms of the Blast.Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers,Lightning, my pilot, sits;In a cavern under is fettered the Thunder—It struggles and howls by fits.Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,This pilot is guiding me,Lured by the love of the Genii that moveIn the depths of the purple sea;Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,Over the lakes and the plains,Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,The Spirit he loves remains;And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile,Whilst he is dissolving in rains.—Percy Bysshe Shelley.
—Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Pibroch of Donuil DhuPibroch of Donuil,Wake thy wild voice anew,Summon Clan Conuil.Come away, come away,Hark to the summons!Come in your war-array,Gentles and commons.Come from deep glen, andFrom mountain so rocky;The war-pipe and pennonAre at Inverlocky.Come every hill-plaid, andTrue heart that wears one,Come every steel blade, andStrong hand that bears one.Leave untended the herd,The flock without shelter;Leave the corpse uninterr'd,The bride at the altar;Leave the deer, leave the steer,Leave nets and barges:Come with your fighting gear,Broadswords and targes.Come as the winds come, whenForests are rended,Come as the waves come, whenNavies are stranded:Faster come, faster come,Faster and faster,Chief, vassal, page and groom,Tenant and master.Fast they come, fast they come;See how they gather!Wide waves the eagle plumeBlended with heather.Cast your plaids, draw your blades,Forward each man set!Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,Knell for the onset!—Sir Walter Scott.
—Sir Walter Scott.
From gold to grayOur mild, sweet dayOf Indian summer fades too soon:But tenderlyAbove the seaHangs, white and calm, the hunter's moon.In its pale fireThe village spireShows like the zodiac's spectral lance:The painted wallsWhereon it fallsTransfigured stand in marble trance.—John Greenleaf Whittier.
—John Greenleaf Whittier.
Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with theeJest and youthful Jollity,Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,Nods, and Becks, and wreathèd Smiles,Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,And love to live in dimple sleek;Sport that wrinkled Care derides,And Laughter holding both his sides.Come, and trip it as you goOn the light fantastic toe;And in thy right hand lead with theeThe mountain nymph, sweet Liberty;And if I give thee honour due,Mirth, admit me of thy crew,To live with her, and live with thee,In unreprovèd pleasures free;To hear the Lark begin his flight,And singing startle the dull night,From his watch-tower in the skies,Till the dappled dawn doth rise;Then to come, in spite of sorrow,And at my window bid good morrow,Through the sweetbrier, or the vine,Or the twisted eglantine:While the Cock with lively din,Scatters the rear of darkness thin,And to the stack, or the barn door,Stoutly struts his dames before,Oft list'ning how the hounds and hornCheerly rouse the slumbering morn,From the side of some hoar hill,Through the high wood echoing shrill.Sometime walking not unseenBy hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,Right against the eastern gate,Where the great Sun begins his state,Robed in flames and amber light,The clouds in thousand liveries dight:While the ploughman, near at hand,Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,And the milkmaid singeth blithe,And the mower whets his scythe,And every shepherd tells his taleUnder the hawthorn in the dale.—John Milton.
—John Milton.
Who is Sylvia? what is she,That all our swains commend her?Holy, fair, and wise is she;The heaven such grace did lend her,That she might admirèd be.Is she kind as she is fair?For beauty lives with kindness:Love doth to her eyes repair,To help him of his blindness,And, being help'd, inhabits there.Then to Sylvia let us sing,That Sylvia is excelling;She excels each mortal thingUpon the dull earth dwelling:To her let us garlands bring.—William Shakespeare.
—William Shakespeare.
(A Ballad of the Fleet)
At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away:"Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!"Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God I am no coward;But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick.We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?"Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward;You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore.I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain."So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that day,Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven;But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the landVery carefully and slow,Men of Bideford in Devon,And we laid them on the ballast down below;For we brought them all aboard,And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain,To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight,And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight,With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow."Shall we fight or shall we fly?Good Sir Richard, tell us now,For to fight is but to die!There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set."And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good English men.Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil,For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet."Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and soThe little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe,With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below;For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen,And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane between.Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and laugh'd,Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craftRunning on and on, till delay'dBy their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons,And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns,Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd.And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloudWhence the thunderbolt will fallLong and loud,Four galleons drew awayFrom the Spanish fleet that day,And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay,And the battle-thunder broke from them all.But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and wentHaving that within her womb that had left her ill content;And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand,For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers,And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his earsWhen he leaps from the water to the land.And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea,But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came,Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame;Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame.And some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us no more—God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?For he said "Fight on! fight on!"Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck;And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone,With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck,But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead,And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head,And he said "Fight on! fight on!"And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea,And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring;But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still could sting,So they watch'd what the end would be.And we had not fought them in vain,But in perilous plight were we,Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,And half of the rest of us maim'd for lifeIn the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife;And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold,And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent;And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side;But Sir Richard cried in his English pride,"We have fought such a fight for a day and a nightAs may never be fought again!We have won great glory, my men!And a day less or moreAt sea or ashore,We die—does it matter when?Sink me the ship, Master Gunner—sink her, split her in twain!Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!"And the gunner said, "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply:"We have children, we have wives,And the Lord hath spared our lives.We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go;We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow."And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last,And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace;But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:"I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true;I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do;With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die!"And he fell upon their decks, and he died.And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true,And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheapThat he dared her with one little ship and his English few;Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew,But they sank his body with honour down into the deep,And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew,And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own;When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep,And the water began to heave and the weather to moan,And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags,And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain,And the little Revenge herself went down by the island cragsTo be lost evermore in the main.—Alfred Lord Tennyson.
—Alfred Lord Tennyson.
How sleep the brave, who sink to restBy all their country's wishes blest!When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,She there shall dress a sweeter sodThan Fancy's feet have ever trod.By fairy hands their knell is rung,By forms unseen their dirge is sung:There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,To bless the turf that wraps their clay;And Freedom shall awhile repairTo dwell a weeping hermit there!—William Collins.
—William Collins.
A life on the ocean wave,A home on the rolling deep,Where the scattered waters rave,And the winds their revels keep!Like an eagle caged, I pineOn this dull, unchanging shore:Oh! give me the flashing brine,The spray and the tempest's roar!Once more on the deck I standOf my own swift-gliding craft:Set sail! farewell to the land!The gale follows fair abaft.We shoot through the sparkling foamLike an ocean-bird set free:Like the ocean-bird, our homeWe'll find far out on the sea.The land is no longer in view,The clouds have begun to frown:But with a stout vessel and crew,We'll say, Let the storm come down!And the song of our heart shall be,While the winds and waters rave,A home on the rolling sea!A life on the ocean wave!—Epes Sargent.
—Epes Sargent.
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;Close to the sun in lonely lands,Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;He watches from his mountain walls,And like a thunderbolt he falls.—Alfred Lord Tennyson.
—Alfred Lord Tennyson.
Lord, thou hast been our dwelling placeIn all generations.Before the mountains were brought forth,Or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world,Even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God.Thou turnest man to destruction;And sayest, Return, ye children of men.For a thousand years in thy sightAre but as yesterday when it is past,And as a watch in the night.Thou carriest them away as with a flood;They are as a sleep:In the morning they are like grass which groweth up.In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up;In the evening it is cut down, and withereth.For we are consumed by thine anger,And by thy wrath are we troubled.Thou hast set our iniquities before thee,Our secret sins in the light of thy countenance.For all our days are passed away in thy wrath:We spend our years as a tale that is told.The days of our years are threescore years and ten;And if by reason of strength they be fourscore years,Yet is their strength labour and sorrow;For it is soon cut off, and we fly away.Who knoweth the power of thine anger?Even according to thy fear, so is thy wrath.So teach us to number our days,That we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.Return, O Lord, how long?And let it repent thee concerning thy servants.O satisfy us early with thy mercy;That we may rejoice and be glad all our days.Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted us,And the years wherein we have seen evil.Let thy work appear unto thy servants,And thy glory unto their children.And let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us:And establish thou the work of our hands upon us;Yea, the work of our hands establish thou it.—King David.
—King David.
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,Here once the embattled farmers stood,And fired the shot heard round the world.The foe long since in silence slept;Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;And Time the ruined bridge has sweptDown the dark stream which seaward creeps.On this green bank, by this soft stream,We set to-day a votive stone;That memory may their deed redeem,When, like our sires, our sons are gone.Spirit, that made those heroes dareTo die, and leave their children free,Bid Time and Nature gently spareThe shaft we raise to them and thee.—Ralph Waldo Emerson.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson.
I wandered lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host of golden daffodils;Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretched in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.The waves beside them danced, but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:—A poet could not but be gay,In such a jocund company;I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fillsAnd dances with the daffodils.—William Wordsworth.
—William Wordsworth.
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main,—The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wingsIn Gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,And coral reefs lie bare,And the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;Wrecked is the ship of pearl!And every chambered cell,Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies revealed,—Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year's dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea,Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from Wreathèd Horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!—Oliver Wendell Holmes.
—Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding moreAnd still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease;For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor,Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers;And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keepSteady thy laden head across a brook;Or by a cider-press, with patient look,Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?Think not of them,—thou hast thy music too,While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying dayAnd touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mournAmong the river-sallows, borne aloftOr sinking as the light wind lives or dies;And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble softThe redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.—John Keats.
—John Keats.
Whither, 'midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler's eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.Seek'st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean side?There is a power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast,—The desert and illimitable air,—Lone wandering, but not lost.All day thy wings have fann'd,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and restAnd scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bendSoon o'er thy sheltered nest.Thou'rt gone—the abyss of heavenHath swallow'd up thy form—yet on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.He, who from zone to zoneGuides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.—William Cullen Bryant.
—William Cullen Bryant.
Much have I travell'd in the realms of goldAnd many goodly states and kingdoms seen;Round many western islands have I beenWhich bards in fealty to Apollo hold.Oft of one wide expanse had I been toldThat deep-brow'd Homer rul'd as his demesne;Yet did I never breathe its pure sereneTill I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken;Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyesHe star'd at the Pacific—and all his menLook'd at each other with a wild surmise—Silent, upon a peak in Darien.—John Keats.
—John Keats.