X. Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young Lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Which having been must ever be; In the faith that looks through death, XI. And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born Day Is lovely yet; The Clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 100. SIR HENRY WOTTON. On his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia. You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes, More by your number, than your light, You common people of the skies; What are you when the moon shall rise? You curious chanters of the wood, By your weak accents; what's your praise, You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known, So, when my mistress shall be seen 1845 Edition. |