Man is ever warring, rushing Onward through life's ftormy way, Urged by paffion's fury brood, But women, to fweet filent praises refigning Pluck the moment's brief flowers as they wander along. More free in their limited range, richer ever, Than man, proudly foaring with fruitless endeavour, Through the infinite circles of science and fong. Strong and proud, and felf-commending, To the god-like power of love; Oh, wakened like harp, and as gently resembling Ever gem her foft eyes with Heaven's holiest dew. Man, of power defpotic lord, Perfia, crouching, bites the duft. But gently intreating, and fweetly beguiling, Woman reigns while the graces around her are smiling, Calming down the fierce difcord of hatred and pride; Teaching all whom the ftrife of wild paffions would fever, To unite in one bond, and with her, and for ever, All hopes, each emotion, they else had denied. SCHILLER. XXVII. THE SKYLARK. AIL to thee, blythe Spirit! That from heaven, or near it, Poureft thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springeft, Like a cloud of fire The blue deep thou wingeft, And finging still doft foar, and foaring ever fingeft. In the golden lightning Of the funken fun, O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou doft float and run; Like an unbodied joy whofe race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight, Like a ftar of Heaven In the broad daylight, Thou art unfeen, but yet I hear thy fhrill de light Keen as are the arrows Of that filver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly fee we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud; 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, What is moft like thee; From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops fo bright to fee, 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 fympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aërial hue Amid the flowers and grass that screen it from the view. Like a rofe embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much scent these heavywinged thieves,— Sound of vernal showers On the awakened grass, Rain awakened flowers, All that ever was Joyous and clear and fresh, thy mufic doth furpafs. Teach us, fprite or bird, What fweet notes are thine ; I have never heard Praise of love or wine, That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus Hymeneal, Or triumphant chant, Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt, A thing wherein we feel there is fome hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy ftrains; What fields, or waves, or mountains, What shapes of sky or plains; What love of thy own kind, what ignorance of pain? |