To a Cricket.
VOICE of Summer, keen and shrill,
Chirping round my winter fire,
Of thy song I never tire,
Weary others as they will;
For thy song with Summer's filled -
Filled with sunshine, filled with June;
Firelight echo of that noon
Heard in fields when all is stilled
In the golden light of May,
Bringing scents of new-mown hay,
Bees, and birds, and flowers away:
Prithee, haunt my fireside still,
Voice of Summer, keen and shrill!
WILLIAM C. BENNETT.
O HAPPY sleep! that bear'st upon thy breast The blood-red poppy of enchanting rest,
Draw near me through the stillness of this place
And let thy low breath move across my face,
As faint winds move above a poplar's crest.
The broad seas darken slowly in the west;
The wheeling sea-birds call from nest to nest;
Draw near and touch me, leaning out of space,
O happy Sleep!
There is no sorrow hidden or confessed
There is no passion uttered or suppressed,
Thou canst not for a little while efface;
Enfold me in thy mystical embrace,
Thou sovereign gift of God most sweet, most blest,
O happy Sleep!
Fair hope is dead, and light
Is quenched in night;
What sound can break the silence of despair? O doubting heart!
The sky is overcast,
Yet stars shall rise at last,
Brighter for darkness past,
And angels' silver voices stir the air.
EVER let the Fancy roam;
Pleasure never is at home:
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;
Then let winged Fancy wander
Through the thought still spread beyond her;
Open wide the mind's cage-door-
She'll dart förth, and cloudward soar.
O sweet Fancy! let her loose!
Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the Spring
Fades as does its blossoming.
Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
Cloys with tasting. What do then?
Sit thee by the ingle, when
The sear fagot blazes bright,
Spirit of a winter's night;
When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the caked snow is shuffled
From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;
When the Night doth meet the Noon
In a dark conspiracy
To banish Even from her sky.
Sit thee there, and send abroad,
With a mind self-overawed,
Fancy, high-commissioned; - send her!
She has vassals to attend her;
She will bring, in spite of frost,
Beauties that the earth hath lost; -
She will bring thee, all together,
All delights of summer weather;
All the buds and bells of May,
From dewy sward or thorny spray;
All the heaped Autumn's wealth; -
With a still, mysterious stealth;
She will mix these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup,
And thou shalt quaff it,- thou shalt hear
Distant harvest-carols clear-
Rustle of the reaped corn;
Sweet birds antheming the morn;
And, in the same moment - hark!
"Tis the early April lark,—
Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Foraging for sticks and straw.
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
The daisy and the marigold;
White-plumed lilies, and the first
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
Shaded hyacinth, alway
Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
And every leaf, and every flower
Pearled with the self-same shower.
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Meagre from its celled sleep:
And the snake, all winter-thin,
Cast on sunny bank its skin;
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
Quiet on her mossy nest;
Then the hurry and alarm
When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
Acorns ripe down-pattering
While the autumn breezes sing.
Oh sweet Fancy! let her loose!
Every thing is spoilt by use;
Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
Too much gazed at? Where's the maid
Whose lip mature is ever new?
Where's the eye, however blue,
Doth not weary? Where's the face
One would meet in every place!
Where's the voice, however soft,
One would hear so very oft!
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
Let, then, winged Fancy find
Thee a mistress to thy mind:
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter
Ere the god of Torment taught her
How to frown and how to chide;
With a waist and with a side
Blow, blow, thon Winter Wind.
BLOW, blow, thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind
As 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-
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot;
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered 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!
The Midnight Wind. MOURNFULLY! oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth sigh, Like some sweet, plaintive melody Of ages long gone by!
It speaks a tale of other years,— Of hopes that bloomed to die,Of sunny smiles that set in tears,
And loves that mouldering lie!
Mournfully! oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth moan! It stirs some chord of memory
In each dull, heavy tone! The voices of the much-loved dead Seem floating thereupon,All, all my fond heart cherished Ere death had made it lone.
Mournfully! oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth swell
With its quaint, pensive minstrelsy,-
Hope's passionate farewell
To the dreamy joys of early years,
Ere yet grief's canker fell
On the heart's bloom,-ay! well may tears Start at that parting knell!
The Holly-Tree.
O READER! hast thou ever stood to see
The eye that contemplates it well, perceives Its glossy leaves
Ordered by an intelligence so wise
As might confound the atheist's sophistries.
Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen
Wrinkled and keen;
No grazing cattle, through their prickly round,
Can reach to wound;
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralize;
And in this wisdom of the holly-tree
Can emblems see
Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme,
One which may profit in the after-time.
Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear
Harsh and austere -
To those who on my leisure would intrude,
Reserved and rude;
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be,
Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree.
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