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Page 69 - Why sleep'st thou, Eve? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labour'd song, now reigns Full orb'd the moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowy sets off the face of things, in vain, If none regard; heaven wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, nature's desire?
Page 46 - In glassy breadth, seem, through delusive lapse, Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all, And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks Drop the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye The falling verdure. Hushed in short suspense, The plumy people streak their wings with oil, To throw the lucid moisture trickling off, And wait the approaching sign, to strike at once Into the general choir.
Page 141 - See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs, And mounts exulting on triumphant wings: Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound, Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground. Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes, His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes, The vivid green his shining plumes unfold, His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold?
Page 72 - Superior heard, run through the sweetest length Of notes; when listening Philomela deigns To let them joy, and purposes, in thought Elate, to make her night excel their day.
Page 132 - O NIGHTINGALE that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love. O, if Jove's will Have...
Page 148 - THERE is a bird, who by his coat, And by the hoarseness of his note, Might be supposed a crow; A great frequenter of the church, Where bishoplike he finds a perch, And dormitory too. Above the steeple shines a plate, That turns and turns, to indicate From what point blows the weather. Look upó your brains begin to swim, 'Tis in the cloudsó that pleases him, He chooses it the rather.
Page 72 - Up springs the lark, 590 Shrill-voiced and loud, the messenger of morn : Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts Calls up the tuneful nations.
Page 114 - He sang of love, with quiet blending, Slow to begin, and never ending ; Of serious faith, and inward glee ; That was the song, the song for me...
Page 395 - Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn, Yet horror screams from his discordant throat. Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn, While warbling larks on russet pinions float. Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote, Where the grey linnets carol from the hill. O, let them ne'er, with artificial note, To please a tyrant strain the little bill, But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will.