But name th' offence, and you absolve the rest, And point the dagger at a single breast.
Yet there are sinners of a class so low, That you with safety may the lash bestow : Poachers, and drunkards, idle rogues, who feed At others' cost, a mark'd correction need: And all the better sort, who see your zeal, Will love and reverence for their pastor feel; Reverence for one who can inflict the smart, And love, because he deals them not a part.
CRABBE, The Tales, XV.
I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and waving in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay : Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee :- A poet could not but be gay,
În such a jocund company.
I gazed, and gazed, but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought;
For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude, And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day Distinguishes the west, no long thin slip Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge! You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, But hear no murmuring: it flows silently O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, A balmy night! and though the stars be dim, Yet let us think upon the vernal showers That gladden thegreen earth, and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. And hark! the nightingale begins its song, "Most musical, most melancholy" bird! A melancholy bird? O idle thought! In nature there is nothing melancholy.
-But some night-wand'ring man, whose heart was pierced
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, Or slow distemper, or neglected love,
(And so, poor wretch! filled all things with himself, And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale Of his own sorrows) he and such as he First named these notes a melancholy strain : And many a poet echoes the conceit : Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme When he had better far have stretched his limbs
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, By sun or moon light, to the influxes Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song And of his fame forgetful! so his fame Should share in nature's immortality, A venerable thing! and so his song Should make all nature lovelier, and itself Be loved, like nature. But 'twill not be so : And youths and maidens most poetical, Who lose the deep'ning twilights of the spring In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. We have learnt
A different lore, we may not thus profane Nature's sweet voices always full of love And joyous! 'Tis the merry nightingale That crowds and hurries and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love chant, and disburthen his full soul Of all its music! I know a grove
Is wild with tangling underwood,
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, Thin grass, and kingcups grow within the paths. But never elsewhere in one place I knew So many nightingales: and far and near In wood and thicket over the wide grove They answer and provoke each others' songs— With skirmish and capricious passagings, And murmurs musical, and swift jug, jug, And one low piping sound more sweet than all- Stirring the air with such a harmony,
That should you close your eyes, you might almost Forget it was not day.
Now the bright morning-star, Day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.
Hail, beauteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire! Woods and groves are of thy dressing; Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long. MILTON.
WHERE sunless rivers weep Their waves into the deep, She sleeps a charmed sleep; Awake her not.
Led by a single star
She came from very far, To seek where shadows are, Her pleasant lot.
She left the rosy morn, She left the fields of corn, For twilight cold and lorn And water springs.
Through sleep, as thro' a veil, She sees the sky look pale, And hears the nightingale, That sadly sings.
Rest, rest, a perfect rest, Shed over brow and breast; Her face is towards the west, The purple land.
She cannot see the grain Ripening on hill and plain ; She cannot feel the rain Upon her hand.
Rest, rest, for evermore Upon a mossy shore ; Rest, rest at the heart's core Till time shall cease.
Sleep that no pain shall wake, Night that no morn shall break, Till joy shall overtake
Her perfect peace.
FAIRE pledges of a fruitfull tree, Why doe ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile, To blush and gently smile,
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