Voices for the Speechless Part 17

WORDSWORTH.

Sh.e.l.lEY'S SKYLARK.--(Extracts.)

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.

Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal Or triumphal chant Matched with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt-- A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain?

What fields, or waves, or mountains?

What shapes of sky or plain?

What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow The world should listen then, as I am listening now!

P. B. Sh.e.l.lEY.

HOGG'S 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,-- Oh to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is the day 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 mountain 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!

JAMES HOGG.

A skylark wounded on the wing Doth make a cherub cease to sing.

He who shall hurt a little wren Shall never be beloved by men.

W. BLAKE.

THE SWEET-VOICED QUIRE.

Lord, should we oft forget to sing A thankful evening hymn of praise, This duty, they to mind might bring, Who chirp among the bushy sprays.

For in their perches they retire, When first the twilight waxeth dim; And every night the sweet-voiced quire Shuts up the daylight with a hymn.

Ten thousand fold more cause have we To close each day with praiseful voice, To offer thankful hearts to Thee, And in thy mercies to rejoice.

GEORGE WITHER, 1628.

A CAGED LARK.

A cruel deed It is, sweet bird, to cage thee up Prisoner for life, with just a cup And a box of seed, And sod to move on barely one foot square, Hung o'er dark street, midst foul and murky air.

From freedom brought, And robbed of every chance of wing, Thou couldst have had no heart to sing, One would have thought.

But though thy song is sung, men little know The yearning source from which those sweet notes flow.

Poor little bird!

As often as I think of thee, And how thou longest to be free, My heart is stirred, And, were my strength but equal to my rage, Methinks thy cager would be in his cage.

The selfish man!

To take thee from thy broader sphere, Where thousands heard thy music clear, On Nature's plan; And where the listening landscape far and wide Had joy, and thou thy liberty beside.

A singing slave Made now; with no return but food; No mate to love, nor little brood To feed and save; No cool and leafy haunts; the cruel wires Chafe thy young life and check thy just desires.

Brave little bird!

Still striving with thy sweetest song To melt the hearts that do thee wrong, I give my word To stand with those who for thy freedom fight, Who claim for thee that freedom as thy right.

_Chambers's Journal._

THE WOODLARK.

I have a friend across the street, We never yet exchanged a word, Yet dear to me his accents sweet-- I am a woman, he a bird.

And here we twain in exile dwell, Far from our native woods and skies, And dewy lawns with healthful smell, Where daisies lift their laughing eyes.

Never again from moss-built nest Shall the caged woodlark blithely soar; Never again the heath be pressed By foot of mine for evermore!

Yet from that feathered, quivering throat A blessing wings across to me; No thrall can hold that mellow note, Or quench its flame in slavery.

When morning dawns in holy calm, And each true heart to worship calls, Mine is the prayer, but his the psalm, That floats about our prison walls.

And as behind the thwarting wires The captive creature throbs and sings, With him my mounting soul aspires On Music's strong and cleaving wings.