The Desolation of Eyam The Emigrant, a Tale of the American Woods: and other poems. By William and Mary Howitt |
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TO A NIGHTINGALE. |
 | The Desolation of Eyam |  |
103
TO A NIGHTINGALE.
'Tis night! awake, awake!
And from thy leafy covert raise thy voice!
Pour out thy soul of melody, and make
The silent night rejoice!
And from thy leafy covert raise thy voice!
Pour out thy soul of melody, and make
The silent night rejoice!
Call to the echoes, call
To the far woods that steeped in moon-beams lie;
Call to the quiet sea, the desolate hall,
And each one shall reply.
To the far woods that steeped in moon-beams lie;
Call to the quiet sea, the desolate hall,
And each one shall reply.
104
From out thy leafy boughs,
Thy voice is as a trumpet's through the wild,
Stirring all hearts; which from deep rest doth rouse
Mother and sleeping child.
Thy voice is as a trumpet's through the wild,
Stirring all hearts; which from deep rest doth rouse
Mother and sleeping child.
Yet not with sense of dread
Peasants are gathering in the midnight hours;
And high-born maiden goes, with stately tread,
Down paths of moonlit flowers.
Peasants are gathering in the midnight hours;
And high-born maiden goes, with stately tread,
Down paths of moonlit flowers.
The gentle poet speeds
Forth in the dewy hush of night, elate
With song and love, and his sweet fancy feeds,
Hailing thee his own mate.
Forth in the dewy hush of night, elate
With song and love, and his sweet fancy feeds,
Hailing thee his own mate.
Pour forth, pour forth thy strain,
Until the blue depths of the heaven are filled;
Until the memory of thy secret pain
With thine own song is stilled.
Until the blue depths of the heaven are filled;
Until the memory of thy secret pain
With thine own song is stilled.
105
Oh! pour, as thou didst ever,
Thy tide of song forth from thy hidden tree,
Like unspent waters of a viewless river
Feeding the mighty sea.
Thy tide of song forth from thy hidden tree,
Like unspent waters of a viewless river
Feeding the mighty sea.
When poesy divine
Made visible glory by the sacred spring,
Thou wast a voice unto the mystic nine,
At midnight warbling.
Made visible glory by the sacred spring,
Thou wast a voice unto the mystic nine,
At midnight warbling.
Then from his dreamy mood,
A marvel to himself, the poet sprung,
In spiritual might, like one with youth renewed,
And smote his lyre and sung.
A marvel to himself, the poet sprung,
In spiritual might, like one with youth renewed,
And smote his lyre and sung.
Oh! as thou wast to him,
Touching his spirit with etherial fire,
Be priestess unto us, and our cold, dim,
And soul-less clay inspire!
Touching his spirit with etherial fire,
Be priestess unto us, and our cold, dim,
And soul-less clay inspire!
106
Alas! it were unjust
To deem thou could'st transmute our iron age:
Man has bowed down his spirit to the dust—
Has sold his heritage.
To deem thou could'st transmute our iron age:
Man has bowed down his spirit to the dust—
Has sold his heritage.
We come forth in the night,
In the pure dews, and silvery light of heaven;
But in our bosom lies the deadening blight,—
The world's corrupting leaven.
In the pure dews, and silvery light of heaven;
But in our bosom lies the deadening blight,—
The world's corrupting leaven.
Aye, sing, thou rapturous bird;
And though my spirit bear the impress of ill,
Yet, from the holy feeling thou hast stirred,
Thy power remaineth still.
And though my spirit bear the impress of ill,
Yet, from the holy feeling thou hast stirred,
Thy power remaineth still.
| The Desolation of Eyam | |