Nor have I, wild lark, thy wing,
     That from bluest heaven can bring
     Bliss, whatever fate befall;
     And the sky-lyrist trilled this ditty, —
     ‘Love will give thee all.’

     So it chanced while June was young,
     Wooing well with fervent song,
     I had won a damsel coy;
     And the sweet birds that sang for pity,
     Jubileed for joy.

     PASTORALS

     I

     How sweet on sunny afternoons,
     For those who journey light and well,
     To loiter up a hilly rise
     Which hides the prospect far beyond,
     And fancy all the landscape lying
     Beautiful and still;

     Beneath a sky of summer blue,
     Whose rounded cloudlets, folded soft,
     Gaze on the scene which we await
     And picture from their peacefulness;
     So calmly to the earth inclining
     Float those loving shapes!

     Like airy brides, each singling out
     A spot to love and bless with love,
     Their creamy bosoms glowing warm,
     Till distance weds them to the hills,
     And with its latest gleam the river
     Sinks in their embrace.

     And silverly the river runs,
     And many a graceful wind he makes,
     By fields where feed the happy flocks,
     And hedge-rows hushing pleasant lanes,
     The charms of English home reflected
     In his shining eye: 

     Ancestral oak, broad-foliaged elm,
     Rich meadows sunned and starred with flowers,
     The cottage breathing tender smoke
     Against the brooding golden air,
     With glimpses of a stately mansion
     On a woodland sward;

     And circling round, as with a ring,
     The distance spreading amber haze,
     Enclosing hills and pastures sweet;
     A depth of soft and mellow light
     Which fills the heart with sudden yearning
     Aimless and serene!

     No disenchantment follows here,
     For nature’s inspiration moves
     The dream which she herself fulfils;
     And he whose heart, like valley warmth,
     Steams up with joy at scenes like this
     Shall never be forlorn.

     And O for any human soul
     The rapture of a wide survey —
     A valley sweeping to the West,
     With all its wealth of loveliness,
     Is more than recompense for days
     That taught us to endure.

     II

     Yon upland slope which hides the sun
     Ascending from his eastern deeps,
     And now against the hues of dawn
     One level line of tillage rears;
     The furrowed brow of toil and time;
     To many it is but a sweep of land!

     To others ’tis an Autumn trust,
     But unto me a mystery; —
     An influence strange and swift as dreams;
     A whispering of old romance;
     A temple naked to the clouds;
     Or one of nature’s bosoms fresh revealed,