The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 55

TO A SKYLARK

Up with me! up with me into the clouds!

For thy song, Lark, is strong; Up with me, up with me into the clouds!

Singing, singing, With clouds and sky about thee ringing, Lift me, guide me till I find That spot which seems so to thy mind!

I have walked through wildernesses dreary And to-day my heart is weary; Had I now the wings of a Fairy, Up to thee would I fly.

There is madness about thee, and joy divine In that song of thine; Lift me, guide me high and high To thy banqueting-Place in the sky.

Joyous as morning Thou art laughing and scorning; Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest.

And, though little troubled with sloth, Drunken Lark! thou would'st be loth To be such a traveler as I.

Happy, happy Liver, With a soul as strong as a mountain river Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, Joy and jollity be with us both!

Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven, Through p.r.i.c.kly moors or dusty ways must wind; But hearing thee, or others of thy kind, As full of gladness and as free of heaven, I, with my fate contented, will plod on, And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

TO A SKYLARK

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!

Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?

Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?

Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still!

To the last point of vision, and beyond, Mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain --'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond-- Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing All independent of the leafy spring.

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; A privacy of glorious light is thine, Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine: Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam-- True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

THE SKYLARK

Bird of the wilderness, Blithesome and c.u.mberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!

Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place-- O 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-- O to abide in the desert with thee!

James Hogg [1770-1835]

THE SKYLARK

How the blithe Lark runs up the golden stair That leans through cloudy gates from Heaven to Earth, And all alone in the empyreal air Fills it with jubilant sweet songs of mirth; How far he seems, how far With the light upon his wings, Is it a bird, or star That s.h.i.+nes, and sings?

What matter if the days be dark and frore, That sunbeam tells of other days to be, And singing in the light that floods him o'er In joy he overtakes Futurity; Under cloud-arches vast He peeps, and sees behind Great Summer coming fast Adown the wind!

And now he dives into a rainbow's rivers, In streams of gold and purple he is drowned, Shrilly the arrows of his song he s.h.i.+vers, As though the stormy drops were turned to sound; And now he issues through, He scales a cloudy tower, Faintly, like falling dew, His fast notes shower.

Let every wind be hushed, that I may hear The wondrous things he tells the World below, Things that we dream of he is watching near, Hopes that we never dreamed he would bestow; Alas! the storm hath rolled Back the gold gates again, Or surely he had told All Heaven to men!

So the victorious Poet sings alone, And fills with light his solitary home, And through that glory sees new worlds foreshown, And hears high songs, and triumphs yet to come; He waves the air of Time With thrills of golden chords, And makes the world to climb On linked words.

What if his hair be gray, his eyes be dim, If wealth forsake him, and if friends be cold, Wonder unbars her thousand gates to him, Truth never fails, nor Beauty waxes old; More than he tells his eyes Behold, his spirit hears, Of grief, and joy, and sighs 'Twixt joy and tears.

Blest is the man who with the sound of song Can charm away the heartache, and forget The frost of Penury, and the stings of Wrong, And drown the fatal whisper of Regret!

Darker are the abodes Of Kings, though his be poor, While Fancies, like the G.o.ds, Pa.s.s through his door.

Singing thou scalest Heaven upon thy wings, Thou liftest a glad heart into the skies; He maketh his own sunrise, while he sings, And turns the dusty Earth to Paradise; I see thee sail along Far up the sunny streams, Unseen, I hear his song, I see his dreams.

Frederick Tennyson [1807-1898]

TO A SKYLARK

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!

Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher, From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

What thou art we know not; What is most like thee?

From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: