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I have walk'd through wildernesses dreary,
And today my heart is weary;
Had I now the soul of a Faery,
Up to thee would I fly.
There is madness about thee, and joy divine
In that song of thine;
Up with me, up with me, high and high,
To thy banqueting-place in the sky!
Joyous as Morning,
Thou art laughing and scorning;
Thou hast a nest, for thy love and thy rest:
And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken Lark! thou would'st be loth
To be such a Traveller as I.
Happy, happy Liver! With a soul as strong as a mountain River, Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,
Joy and jollity be with us both!
Hearing thee, or else some other,
As merry a Brother,
I on the earth will go plodding on,
By myself, chearfully, till the day is dono.
" With how sad steps, O Moon thou climb'st the sky,
How silently, and with how wan a face!” *
Where art thou? Thou whom I have seen on high
Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race?
Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh
Which they would stifle, move at such a pace!
The Northern Wind, to call thee to the chace,
Must blow tonight his bugle horn. Had I
power of Merlin, Goddess ! this should be;
And all the Stars, now shrouded up in heaven,
Should sally forth to keep thee company.
What strife would then be yours, fair Creatures, driv'n
Now up, now down, and sparkling in your glee!
But, Cynthia, should to Thee the palm be giv'n,
Queen both for beauty and for majesty.
* From a sonnet of Sir Philip Sydney,
The Post-boy drove with fierce career,
For threat’ning clouds the moon had drown'd;
When suddenly I seem'd to hear
A moan, a lamentable sound.
As if the wind blew many ways
I heard the sound, and more and more:
It seem'd to follow th the Chaise,
And still I heard it as before.
At length I to the Boy call'd out,
He stoppd his horses at the word;
But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,
Nor aught else like it could be heard.
The Boy then smack'd his whip, and fast The horses scamper'd through the rain; And soon I heard
the blast The voice, and bade him halt again.
Said I, alighting on the ground,
“ What can it be, this piteous moan?”
And there a little Girl I found,
Sitting behind the Chaise, alone.
" My Cloak!” the word was last and first,
And loud and bitterly she wept,
As if her very heart would burst;
And down from off the Chaise she leapt.