 | The poetical works of Barry Cornwall |  |
Come then, my stream, and I will sing of thee:
Worthy from beauty, oh! but worthier far
From sweet associate pleasures. Thou to me
Art like the glass of memory, where the mind
Sees, charmed and softened by thy murmuring, things
It elsewhere dare not dream of; things that fled
With early youth, and went—I know not whither:
Shadows forgot, and hope that perished.—
—Beautiful river! on thy banks remote
Still does the half-sunned primrose waste its sweets,
And that pale flower that loves the valley, (white
Like purity) comes forth; blue violets,
The wild-brier-rose, and spotted daisies, which
The young year scatters on the sward, and all
That June or April love, or Autumn spares
Amidst her golden bounty, live unhurt.
Here, on May mornings, I may hear the thrush
Pour from his silver throat sweet music; and,
'Neath summer stars the nightingale—(for she
Is queen of all earth's choristers, and holds
Acquaintance with the evening winds, which waft her
Sweet tidings from the rose.) The stockdove here
Breathes her deep note complaining, 'till the air
Seems touch'd, and all the woods and hollows, sighing,
Prolong the sound to sadness. Hark! a noise.
Worthy from beauty, oh! but worthier far
From sweet associate pleasures. Thou to me
Art like the glass of memory, where the mind
Sees, charmed and softened by thy murmuring, things
It elsewhere dare not dream of; things that fled
With early youth, and went—I know not whither:
Shadows forgot, and hope that perished.—
—Beautiful river! on thy banks remote
Still does the half-sunned primrose waste its sweets,
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Like purity) comes forth; blue violets,
The wild-brier-rose, and spotted daisies, which
The young year scatters on the sward, and all
That June or April love, or Autumn spares
Amidst her golden bounty, live unhurt.
Here, on May mornings, I may hear the thrush
Pour from his silver throat sweet music; and,
'Neath summer stars the nightingale—(for she
Is queen of all earth's choristers, and holds
Acquaintance with the evening winds, which waft her
Sweet tidings from the rose.) The stockdove here
Breathes her deep note complaining, 'till the air
Seems touch'd, and all the woods and hollows, sighing,
Prolong the sound to sadness. Hark! a noise.
| The poetical works of Barry Cornwall | |