Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,And Phœbus 'gins arise,His steeds to water at those springsOn chalic'd flowers that lies;And winking Mary-buds beginTo ope their golden eyes:With everything that pretty bin,My lady sweet, arise;Arise, arise!—William Shakespeare.
—William Shakespeare.
When icicles hang by the wall,And Dick the shepherd blows his nailAnd Tom bears logs into the hall,And milk comes frozen home in pail;When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl,To-who;Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.When all aloud the wind doth blow,And coughing drowns the parson's saw,And birds sit brooding in the snow,And Marion's nose looks red and raw;When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,Then nightly sings the staring owl,To-who;Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.—William Shakespeare.
—William Shakespeare.
Over hill, over dale,Thorough bush, thorough brier,Over park, over pale,Thorough flood, thorough fire,I do wander everywhere,Swifter than the moon's sphere;And I serve the fairy queen,To dew her orbs upon the green:The cowslips tall her pensioners be;In their gold coats spots you see;Those be rubies, fairy favours,In those freckles live their savours:I must go seek some dewdrops here,And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.—William Shakespeare.
—William Shakespeare.
Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,Since o'er shady groves they hover,And with leaves and flowers do coverThe friendless bodies of unburied men.Call unto his funeral doleThe ant, the field mouse, and the moleTo rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm,And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm:But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men:For with his nails he'll dig them up again.—John Webster.
—John Webster.
My heart leaps up when I beholdA rainbow in the sky:So was it when my life began,So is it now I am a man,So be it when I shall grow oldOr let me die!The Child is father of the Man:And I could wish my days to beBound each to each by natural piety.—William Wordsworth.
—William Wordsworth.
Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day:With night we banish sorrow;Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft,To give my Love good-morrow!Wings from the wind to please her mind,Notes from the lark I'll borrow;Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,To give my Love good-morrow;To give my Love good-morrowNotes from them both I'll borrow.Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast,Sing, birds, in every furrow;And from each hill, let music shrillGive my fair Love good-morrow!Blackbird and thrush in every bush,Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,Sing my fair Love good-morrowTo give my Love good-morrow;Sing, birds, in every furrow!—Thomas Heywood.
—Thomas Heywood.
The cock is crowing,The stream is flowing,The small birds twitter,The lake doth glitter,The green field sleeps in the sun:The oldest and youngestAre at work with the strongest:The cattle are grazing,Their heads never raising,There are forty feeding like one!Like an army defeated,The snow has retreated,And now doth fare illOn the top of the bare hill;The ploughboy is whooping—anon—anon:There's joy in the mountains;There's life in the fountains,Small clouds are sailing,Blue sky prevailing,The rain is over and gone!—William Wordsworth.
—William Wordsworth.
Up, up! ye dames, ye lasses gay!To the meadows trip away.'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn,And scare the small birds from the corn.Not a soul at home may stay:For the shepherds must goWith lance and bowTo hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.Leave the hearth and leave the houseTo the cricket and the mouse:Find grannam out a sunny seat,With babe and lambkin at her feet.Not a soul at home may stay:For the shepherds must goWith lance and bowTo hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.—Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
Come, dear children, let us away;Down and away below.Now my brothers call from the bay;Now the great winds shoreward blow;Now the salt tides seaward flow;Now the wild white horses play,Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.Children dear, let us away.This way, this way!Call her once before you go.Call once yet.In a voice that she will know:"Margaret! Margaret!"Children's voices should be dear(Call once more) to a mother's ear:Children's voices, wild with pain.Surely she will come again.Call her once and come away.This way, this way!"Mother dear, we cannot stay.The wild white horses foam and fret."Margaret! Margaret!Come, dear children, come away down.Call no more.One last look at the white-wall'd town,And the little gray church on the windy shore.Then come down.She will not come though you call all day.Come away, come away.Children dear, was it yesterdayWe heard the sweet bells over the bay?In the caverns where we lay,Through the surf and through the swell,The far-off sound of a silver bell?Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,Where the winds are all asleep;Where the spent lights quiver and gleam;Where the salt weed sways in the stream;Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,Dry their mail, and bask in the brine;Where great whales come sailing by,Sail and sail, with unshut eye,Round the world for ever and aye?When did music come this way?Children dear, was it yesterday?Children dear, was it yesterday(Call yet once) that she went away?Once she sate with you and me.On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,And the youngest sate on her knee.She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well,When down swung the sound of the far-off bell.She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea.She said, "I must go, for my kinsfolk prayIn the little gray church on the shore to-day.'Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me!And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee."I said, "Go up, dear heart, through the waves.Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves."She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.Children dear, was it yesterday?Children dear, were we long alone?"The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say.Come," I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay.We went up the beach, by the sandy downWhere the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town,Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,To the little gray church on the windy hill.From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,But we stood without in the cold-blowing airs.We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:"Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here.Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone.The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan."But, ah! she gave me never a look,For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book.Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.Come away, children, call no more.Come away, come down, call no more.Down, down, down;Down to the depths of the sea.She sits at her wheel in the humming town,Singing most joyfully.Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy,For the humming street, and the child with its toy;For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well;For the wheel where I spun,And the blessèd light of the sun."And so she sings her fill,Singing most joyfully,Till the shuttle falls from her hand,And the whizzing wheel stands still.She steals to the window, and looks at the sand;And over the sand at the sea;And her eyes are set in a stare;And anon there breaks a sigh,And anon there drops a tear,From a sorrow-clouded eye,And a heart sorrow-laden,A long, long sighFor the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden,And the gleam of her golden hair.Come away, away, children.Come, children, come down.The hoarse wind blows colder;Lights shine in the town.She will start from her slumberWhen gusts shake the door;She will hear the winds howling,Will hear the waves roar.We shall see, while above usThe waves roar and whirl,A ceiling of amber,A pavement of pearl.Singing, "Here came a mortal,But faithless was she:And alone dwell for everThe kings of the sea."But, children, at midnight,When soft the winds blow;When clear falls the moonlight;When spring-tides are low:When sweet airs come seawardFrom heaths starr'd with broom;And high rocks throw mildlyOn the blanch'd sands a gloom:Up the still, glistening beaches,Up the creeks we will hie;Over banks of bright seaweedThe ebb-tide leaves dry.We will gaze, from the sand-hills,At the white, sleeping town;At the church on the hill-side—And then come back down,Singing, "There dwells a loved one,But cruel is she.She left lonely foreverThe kings of the sea."—Matthew Arnold.
—Matthew Arnold.
O Lord, our Lord,How excellent is thy name in all the earth!Who hast set thy glory above the heavens,Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength,Because of thine enemies,That thou mightest still the enemy and the avenger.When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers,The moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained;What is man that thou art mindful of him?And the son of man, that thou visitest him?For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels,And hast crowned him with glory and honour.Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of thy hands;Thou hast put all things under his feet:All sheep and oxen,Yea, and the beasts of the field;The fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea,And whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas.O Lord, our Lord,How excellent is thy name in all the earth!—King David.
—King David.
The splendour falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story:The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far from cliff and scarThe horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.O love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow forever and forever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.—Alfred Lord Tennyson.
—Alfred Lord Tennyson.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down a valley.By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.Till last by Philip's farm I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow.I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travelWith many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel,And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers;I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers.I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows.I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars;I loiter round my cresses;And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go.But I go on forever.—Alfred Lord Tennyson.
—Alfred Lord Tennyson.
Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chairState in wonted manner keep:Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess excellently bright.Earth, let not thy envious shadeDare itself to interpose;Cynthia's shining orb was madeHeaven to clear when day did close:Bless us then with wishèd sight,Goddess excellently bright.Lay thy bow of pearl apartAnd thy crystal-shining quiver;Give unto the flying hartSpace to breathe, how short soever:Thou that mak'st a day of night,Goddess excellently bright!—Ben Jonson.
—Ben Jonson.
As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow,Surprised I was with sudden heat, which made my heart to glow;And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,A pretty babe, all burning bright, did in the air appear;Who, scorchèd with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed,As though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears were fed:—"Alas!" quoth He, "but newly born, in fiery heats I fry,Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I!"My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns;Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns;The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals,The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defilèd souls,For which, as now on fire I am, to work them to their good,So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood."—With this He vanished out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away;And straight I callèd unto mind that it was Christmas-day.—Robert Southwell.
—Robert Southwell.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,A wind that follows fastAnd fills the white and rustling sailAnd bends the gallant mast;And bends the gallant mast, my boys,While like the eagle freeAway the good ship flies, and leavesOld England on the lee.O for a soft and gentle wind!I heard a fair one cry;But give to me the snoring breezeAnd white waves heaving high;And white waves heaving high, my lads,The good ship tight and free:—The world of waters is our home,And merry men are we.There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,And lightning in yon cloud;But hark the music, mariners!The wind is piping loud;The wind is piping loud, my boys,The lightning flashes free—While the hollow oak our palace is,Our heritage the sea.—Allan Cunningham.
—Allan Cunningham.
Where lies the land to which the ship would go?Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.And where the land she travels from? Away,Far, far behind, is all that they can say.On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face,Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace;Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch belowThe foaming wake far widening as we go.On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave,How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave!The dripping sailor on the reeling mastExults to bear, and scorns to wish it past.Where lies the land to which the ship would go?Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.And where the land she travels from? Away,Far, far behind, is all that they can say.—Arthur Hugh Clough.
—Arthur Hugh Clough.
Under the greenwood treeWho loves to lie with me,And turn his merry noteUnto the sweet bird's throat—Come hither, come hither, come hither!Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.Who doth ambition shunAnd loves to live i' the sun,Seeking the food he eatsAnd pleased with what he gets—Come hither, come hither, come hither!Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.—William Shakespeare.
—William Shakespeare.
Fair Daffodils, we weep to seeYou haste away so soon:As yet the early-rising SunHas not attain'd his noon.Stay, stay,Until the hasting dayHas runBut to the even-song;And, having pray'd together, weWill go with you along.We have short time to stay, as you,We have as short a Spring;As quick a growth to meet decayAs you, or anything.We die,As your hours do, and dryAwayLike to the Summer's rain;Or as the pearls of Morning's dewNe'er to be found again.—Robert Herrick.
—Robert Herrick.
The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying;And the yearOn the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,Is lying.Come, Months, come away,From November to May,In your saddest array,—Follow the bierOf the dead cold year,And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling,The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling,For the year;The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each goneTo his dwelling.Come, Months, come away;Put on white, black, and gray;Let your light sisters play;Ye, follow the bierOf the dead cold year,And make her grave green with tear on tear.—Percy Bysshe Shelley.
—Percy Bysshe Shelley.
From Oberon, in fairy land,The king of ghosts and shadows there,Mad Robin I, at his command,Am sent to view the night-sports here.What revel routIs kept about,In every corner where I go,I will o'ersee,And merry be,And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho!More swift than lightning can I flyAbout this airy welkin soon,And, in a minute's space, descryEach thing that's done below the moon.There's not a hagOr ghost shall wag,Or cry 'ware goblins, where I go;But, Robin, ITheir feast will spy,And send them home with ho, ho, ho!Whene'er such wanderers I meet,As from their night-sports they trudge home,With counterfeiting voice I greet,And call them on with me to roam;Through woods, through lakes,Through bogs, through brakes,Or else, unseen, with them I go,All in the nickTo play some trick,And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho!Sometimes I meet them like a man,Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound;And to a horse I turn me can,To trip and trot about them round.But if to ride,My back they stride,More swift than wind away I go,O'er hedge and lands.Through pools and ponds,I hurry, laughing, ho, ho, ho!By wells and rills, in meadows green,We nightly dance our heyday guise;And to our fairy King and Queen,We chant our moonlight minstrelsies.When larks 'gin sing,Away we fling;And babes new born steal as we go;And elf in bed,We leave instead,And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho!From hag-bred Merlin's time have IThus nightly revell'd to and fro;And for my pranks men call me byThe name of Robin Good-fellow.Fiends, ghosts, and sprites,Who haunt the nights,The hags and goblins do me know;And beldames oldSovalé,valé! ho, ho, ho!—Unknown.
—Unknown.
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!Rescue my castle before the hot dayBrightens to blue from its silvery gray,Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;Many's the friend there, will listen and pray"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay—Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array,Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay,Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest, and gay,Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay!I've better counsellors; what counsel they?Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"—Robert Browning.
—Robert Browning.
The heavens declare the glory of God;And the firmament showeth his handiwork.Day unto day uttereth speech,And night unto night sheweth knowledge.There is no speech nor language,Where their voice is not heard.Their line is gone out through all the earth,And their words to the end of the world.In them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun,Which is as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber,And rejoiceth as a strong man to run a race.His going forth is from the end of the heaven,And his circuit unto the ends of it:And there is nothing hid from the heat thereof.The law of the Lord is perfect, converting the soul:The testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple.The statutes of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart:The commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes.The fear of the Lord is clean, enduring forever:The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.More to be desired are they than gold, yea, than much fine gold:Sweeter also than honey and the honeycomb.Moreover by them is thy servant warned:And in keeping of them there is great reward.Who can understand his errors? cleanse thou me from secret faults.Keep back thy servant also from presumptuous sins; let them not havedominion over me:Then shall I be upright,And I shall be innocent from the great transgression.Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart, be acceptable in thy sight,O Lord, my strength, and my redeemer.—King David.
—King David.
(A Tynemouth Ship)
The "Northern Star"Sail'd over the barBound to the Baltic Sea;In the morning grayShe stretch'd away:—'Twas a weary day to me!For many an hourIn sleet and showerBy the lighthouse rock I stray;And watch till darkFor the wingèd barkOf him that is far away.The castle's boundI wander round,Amidst the grassy graves:But all I hearIs the north-wind drear,And all I see are the waves.The "Northern Star"Is set afar!Set in the Baltic Sea:And the waves have spreadThe sandy bedThat holds my Love from me.—Unknown.
—Unknown.
The gorse is yellow on the heath;The banks of speedwell flowers are gay;The oaks are budding, and beneath,The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,The silver wreath of May.The welcome guest of settled spring,The swallow, too, is come at lastJust at sunset, when thrushes sing,I saw her dash with rapid wing,And hail'd her as she past.Come, summer visitant, attachTo my reed roof your nest of clay,And let my ear your music catch,Low twittering underneath the thatch,At the gray dawn of day.—Charlotte Smith.
—Charlotte Smith.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,Thou art not so unkindAs man's ingratitude;Thy tooth is not so keen,Because thou art not seen,Although thy breath be rude.Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then heigh ho, the holly!This life is most jolly.Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,That dost not bite so nighAs benefits forgot:Though thou the waters warp,Thy sting is not so sharpAs friend remember'd not.Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then heigh ho, the holly!This life is most jolly.—William Shakespeare.
—William Shakespeare.
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago,And the brier-rose and the orchid died amid the summer glow;But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.—William Cullen Bryant.
—William Cullen Bryant.
It was the schooner Hesperus,That sail'd the wintry sea;And the skipper had taken his little daughter,To bear him company.Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax,Her cheeks like the dawn of day,And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,That ope in the month of May.The skipper he stood beside the helm,His pipe was in his mouth;And he watched how the veering flaw did blowThe smoke now West, now South.Then up and spake an old Sailòr,Had sailed the Spanish Main:"I pray thee, put into yonder port,For I fear a hurricane."Last night, the moon had a golden ring,And to-night no moon we see!"The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,And a scornful laugh laughed he.Colder and louder blew the wind,A gale from the North-east;The snow fell hissing in the brine,And the billows frothed like yeast.Down came the storm, and smote amainThe vessel in its strength;She shuddered and paused, like a frightened steed,Then leaped her cable's length."Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,And do not tremble so;For I can weather the roughest gale,That ever wind did blow."He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat,Against the stinging blast;He cut a rope from a broken spar,And bound her to a mast."O father! I hear the church bells ring.O say, what may it be?""'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"—And he steered for the open sea."O father! I hear the sound of guns,O say, what may it be?""Some ship in distress, that cannot liveIn such an angry sea!""O father! I see a gleaming light,O say, what may it be?"But the father answered never a word,A frozen corpse was he.Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,With his face turned to the skies;The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snowOn his fixed and glassy eyes.Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayedThat savèd she might be;And she thought of Christ, who stilled the waves,On the Lake of Galilee.And fast through the midnight dark and drear,Through the whistling sleet and snow,Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel sweptTowards the reef of Norman's Woe.And ever the fitful gusts betweenA sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surf,On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.The breakers were right beneath her bows,She drifted a weary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crewLike icicles from her deck.She struck where the white and fleecy wavesLooked soft as carded wool,But the cruel rocks, they gored her side,Like the horns of an angry bull.Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the masts, went by the board;Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,Ho! ho! the breakers roared!At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,A fisherman stood aghast,To see the form of a maiden fair,Lashed close to a drifting mast.The salt sea was frozen on her breast,The salt tears in her eyes;And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,On the billows fall and rise.Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,In the midnight and the snow!Christ save us all from a death like this,On the reef of Norman's Woe!—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.