O for the voice and fire of seraphim,
To sing thy glories with devotion due!
WHY doe ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears
Speak griefe in you,
Who were but borne,
Just as the modest morne
Teemed her refreshing dew?
Alas! you have not known that shower
That marres a flower;
Nor felt th' unkind
Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worne with yeares;
Or wrap't, as we,
Who think it strange to see
Such pretty flowers (like to orphans young),
To speak by teares before ye have a tongue.
Speak, whimp'ring younglings; and make known
The reason why
Is it for want of sleep;
Or childish lullabie?
have not seen as yet
The violet?
Or brought a kisse
From that sweetheart to this?
No, no; this sorrow, shown
By your teares shed,
Would have this lecture read,
"That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,
Conceived with grief are, and with teares brought
BUT when mild Morn, in saffron stole,
First issues from her eastern goal,
my due feet fail to climb
Some breezy summit's brow sublime,
Whence Nature's universal face
Illumined smiles with new-born grace;
The misty streams that wind below,
With silver-sparkling lustre glow;
The groves and castled cliffs appear
Invested all in radiance clear;
O! every village charm beneath!
The smoke that mounts in azure wreath!
O beauteous rural interchange!
The simple spire, and elmy grange!
Content, indulging blissful hours,
Whistles o'er the fragrant flowers,
And cattle, roused to pasture new,
Shake jocund from their sides the dew.
'Tis thou alone, O Summer mild,
Canst bid me carol wood-notes wild:
Whene'er I view thy genial scenes,
Thy waving woods, embroidered greens,
What fires within my bosom wake,
How glows my mind the reed to take!
What charms like thine the muse can call,
With whom 'tis youth and laughter all;
With whom each field's a paradise,
And all the globe a bower of bliss!
With thee conversing all the day,
I meditate my lightsome lay.
These pedant cloisters let me leave,
To breathe my votive song at eve
In valleys where mild whispers use,
Of shade and stream to court the muse,
While wandering o'er the brook's dim verge,
I hear the stock dove's dying dirge.
NEXT will I sing the valiant falcon's fame;
Aërial fights, where no confederate brute
Joins in the bloody fray; but bird with bird
Jousts in mid air. Lo! at his siege the hern,
Upon the bank of some small purling brook,
Observant stands to take his scaly prize,
Himself another's game. For mark behind
The wily falconer creeps: his grazing horse
Conceals the treacherous foe, and on his fist
Th' unhooded falcon sits: with eager eyes.
She meditates her prey, and, in her wild
Conceit, already plumes the dying bird.
Up springs the hern, redoubling every stroke,
Conscious of danger, stretches far away
With busy pennons and projected beak,
Piercing th' opponent clouds: the falcon swift
Follows at speed, mounts as he mounts, for hope
Gives vigor to her wings. Another soon
Strains after to support the bold attack,
Perhaps a third. As in some winding creek,
On proud Iberia's shore, the corsairs sly
Lurk waiting to surprise a British sail,
Full freighted from Hetruria's friendly ports,
Or rich Byzantium; after her they scud,
Dashing the spumy waves with equal oars,
And spreading all their shrouds; she makes the
Inviting every gale, nor yet forgets
To clear her deck, and tell th' insulting foe,
In peals of thunder, Britons cannot fear;
So flies the hern pursued, but fighting flies.
Warm grows the conflict, every nerve's employed;
Now through the yielding element they soar
Aspiring high, then sink at once, and rove
In trackless mazes through the troubled sky.
No rest, no peace. The falcon hovering flies
Balanced in air, and confidently bold
Hangs o'er him like a cloud, then aims her blow
Full at his destined head. The watchful hern
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