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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



TO THE SKYLARK. 



Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 



Bird thou never wert, 

 That from Heaven, or near it, 



Pourest thy full heart 

 In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 



Higher still, and higher, 



From the earth thou springest, — 

 Like a cloud of fire ; 



The blue deep thou wingest r 

 And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever, 

 singest ! 



In the golden lightning 



Of the sunken sun, 

 O'er which clouds are bright 'ning r 



Thou dost float and run, — 

 Like an unbodied joy -whose race is just begun. 



The pale purple even 



Melts around thy flight : 

 Like a star of Heaven, 

 In the broad day-light 

 Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 



Keen are the arrows 



Of that silver sphere, 

 "Whose intense lamp narrows 

 In the white dawn clear f 

 L T ntil we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 



All the earth and air 



With thy voice are loud r T 

 As when night is bare, 

 From one lonely cloud 

 The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is 

 overflowed. 



What thou art we know not r 



What is most like thee? 

 From rainbow clouds there flow not 



Drops so bright to see, 

 As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 



Like a poet hidden 



In the light of thought, 

 Singing hymns unbidden, 

 Till the world is wrought 

 To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. 



Like a high-born maiden 



In a palace tower, 

 Soothing her love-laden 

 Soul in secret hour, 

 "With music sweet as love, which overflows her 

 bower • 



Like a glow-worm golden 



In a dell of dew, 

 Scattering unbeholden 

 Its aerial hue 

 Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from 

 the view. 



Like a rose enibower'd 



In its ow r n green leaves. 

 By warm winds deflower'd, 

 Till the scent it gives 

 Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy- 

 winded thieves. 



Sound of vernal showers 



On the twinkling grass, 

 Rain-awakened flowers, 

 All that ever was 

 Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth 

 surpass. 



Teach us r sprite or bird, 



What sweet thoughts are thine \ 

 I have never heard, 

 Praise of love or wine 

 That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 



Chorus hymenseal, 



Or triumphal chant, 

 Matched with thine would be all 



But an empty vaunt, — 

 A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 



What objects are the fountains 



Of thy happy strain ? 

 What fields,, or waves, or mountains ? 

 What shapes of sky or plain ? 

 What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of 

 pain? 



With thy clear keen joyance 



Languor cannot be ; 

 Shadow of annoyance 

 Never came near thee '. 

 Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 



Waking or asleep, 



Thou of death must deem 

 Things more true and deep 

 Than we mortals dream, 

 Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal 

 stream ? 



We look before and after, 



And pine for what is not : 

 Our sincerest laughter 



n\ ith some pain is fraught : 

 Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest 

 thought. 



Yet if we could scorn 



Hate, and pride, and fear ; 

 If we were things born 

 Not to shed a tear, 

 I know not how thy joy we ever could come near. 



Better than all measures 



Of delight and sound, 

 Better than all treasures 



That in books are found, 

 Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground 1 



Teach me half the gladness 



That thy brain must know, 

 Such harmonious madness 

 From my lips would flow, 

 The world should listen then, as i am listen- 

 ing NOW. 



Shelley. 



MORNING DEW. 



Just now the dew, which sometimes on the buds 

 Is wont to swell like round and orient pearls, 

 Stands trembling in each pretty floweret's eye, 

 Like tears that do their own disgrace bewail. 



