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Like a glow-worm golden,
In a dell of dew,
Its aërial hue
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embowered
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
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.
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?
With thy clear, keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking, or asleep
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream;
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound;
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
SIR WALTER SCOTT
Sir Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, August 15, 1771, and died in Abbotsford, Scotland, September 21, 1832. The following extract is from "The Lady of the Lake."
HE stag at eve had drunk his fill,
Where danced the moon on Monan's rill,
In lone Glen Artney's hazel shade;
But, when the sun his beacon red
And faint, from farther distance borne,
As Chief, who hears his warder call,
To arms! the foemen storm the wall," The antler'd monarch of the waste Sprung from his heathery couch in haste. But, ere his fleet career he took, The dew-drops from his flanks he shook; Like crested leader proud and high, Toss'd his beam'd frontlet to the sky; A moment gazed adown the dale, A moment snuff'd the tainted gale, A moment listen'd to the cry, That thicken'd as the chase grew nigh; Then, as the headmost foes appear'd, With one brave bound the copse he clear'd, And, stretching forward free and far, Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.
Yell'd on the view the opening pack;
The awaken'd mountain gave response.
The falcon, from her cairn on high,
Less loud the sounds of sylvan war
For ere that steep ascent was won,
The noble stag was pausing now,