THE THRUSH'S NEST. WITHIN a thick and spreading hawthorn bush, I watch'd her secret toils from day to day, Clare's parents were Northamptonshire peasants, his father crippled, and a pauper. The poet was entirely self-educated. From the age of seven his early years were spent in farm labour, and the highest position he ever attained was that of a peasantfarmer. His verse is simple and sweet, usually descriptive of rural life and scenery, but sometimes purely imaginative. 1837, a kind of constitutional melancholy, from which he had always suffered, developed into lunacy, and the rest of his life was spent in the confinement of an asylum. In THE CUCKOO. HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, What time the daisy decks the green, Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 1 certain-sure or punctual. Delightful visitant! with thee And hear the sound of music sweet The schoolboy, wandering through the wood Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, What time the pea puts on the bloom An annual guest in other lands, Sweet bird thy bower is ever green, Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! John Logan: 1748-1788. He was Logan was the son of a farmer of Mid-Lothian. educated for the Church, and was one of the ministers of South Leith from 1773 to 1786. In his later years he fell into dissipated habits, and died in London at the age of forty. In 1770, Logan edited the poems of Michael Bruce, his college friend, who died in 1767. With great want of principle Logan added other verses to the collection, and so manipulated it as to make all the best appear his own. This circumstance has led to the above poem being sometimes attributed to Bruce, but recent research has shown that Logan is undoubtedly the author. 1 Starts-This line originally stood Starts, thy curious voice to hear. The abruptness of the word Starts well conveys the intended idea. 2 vocal vale-singing-place. TO THE CUCKOO. BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, While I am lying on the grass, Thy loud note smites my ear! I hear thee babbling to the vale Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery. The same whom in my school-boy days Which made me look a thousand ways To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And I can listen to thee yet! And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. O blessed bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, fairy place, That is fit home for thee! William Wordsworth: 1770-1850. (See page 52.) THE SKYLARK. BIRD of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Blest is thy dwelling-place, Oh to abide in the desert with thee ! Wild is thy lay and loud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the rainbow's rim, Then, when the gloaming comes, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be, Blest is thy dwelling-place Oh to abide in the desert with thee ! James Hogg: 1770-1835. James Hogg, 'the Ettrick shepherd,' was a native of Selkirkshire. He was descended from a family of shepherds, and spent his earliest years in tending cows and sheep. He received little instruction, but was a great reader. His first poems were published in 1831. With the exception of two or three unsuccessful attempts at sheep-farming, Hogg spent the rest of his life in literary labour. His work in poetry is of very high order. In the above verses Hogg seems to have written the buoyancy and freedom of the skylark's flight, as, in the following, Shelley has written the music of its song. THE SKYLARK. HAIL to thee, blithe spirit! 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, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, 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 daylight, Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere,1 Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air [flowed. The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is over What thou art, we know not; 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. 1 See notes on Hymn to Diana, page 78. |