Nightingales

Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come,And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefromYe learn your song:Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,Among the flowers, which in that heavenly airBloom the year long!

Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,A throe of the heart,Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,For all our art.

Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of menWe pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,As night is withdrawnFrom these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,Dream, while the innumerable choir of dayWelcome the dawn.

A song of my heart, as the sun peered o'er the sea,Was born at morning to me:And out of my treasure-house it choseA melody, that arose

Of all fair sounds that I love, remembered togetherIn one; and I knew not whetherFrom waves of rustling wheat it was,Recoveringly that pass:

Or a hum of bees in the queenly robes of the lime:Or a descant in pairing timeOf warbling birds: or watery bellsOf rivulets in the hills:

Or whether on blazing downs a high lark's hymnAlone in the azure dim:Or a sough of pines, when the midnight woldIs solitary and cold:

Or a lapping river-ripple all day chidingThe bow of my wherry glidingDown Thames, between his flowery shoresRe-echoing to the oars:

Or anthem notes, wherever in archèd quiresThe unheeded music twires,And, centuries by, to the stony shadeFlies following and to fade:

Or a homely prattle of children's voices gay'Mong garden joys at play:Or a sundown chaunting of solemn rooks:Or memory of my books,

Which hold the words that poets in many a tongueTo the irksome world have sung:Or the voice, my happy lover, of theeNow separated from me.

A ruby of fire in the burning sleep of my brainLong hid my thought had lain,Forgotten dreams of a thousand daysIngathering to its rays,

The light of life in darkness tempering long;Till now a perfect song,A jewel of jewels it leapt aboveTo the coronal of my love.

Christ and his Mother, heavenly maid,Mary, in whose fair name was laidEton's corner, bless our youthWith truth, and purity, mother of truth!

O ye, 'neath breezy skies of June,By silver Thames's lulling tune,In shade of willow or oak, who tryThe golden gates of poesy;

Or on the tabled sward all dayMatch your strength in England's play,Scholars of Henry, giving graceTo toil and force in game or race;

Exceed the prayer and keep the fameOf him, the sorrowful king, who cameHere in his realm a realm to found,Where he might stand for ever crowned.

Or whether with naked bodies flashingYe plunge in the lashing weir; or dashingThe oars of cedar skiffs, ye strainRound the rushes and home again;--

Or what pursuit soe'er it beThat makes your mingled presence free,When by the schoolgate 'neath the limesYe muster waiting the lazy chimes;May Peace, that conquereth sin and death,Temper for you her sword of faith;Crown with honour the loving eyes,And touch with mirth the mouth of the wise.

Here is eternal spring: for youThe very stars of heaven are new;And aged Fame again is born,Fresh as a peeping flower of morn.

For you shall Shakespeare's scene unroll,Mozart shall steal your ravished soul,Homer his bardic hymn rehearse,Virgil recite his maiden verse.

Now learn, love, have, do, be the best;Each in one thing excel the rest:Strive; and hold fast this truth of heaven--To him that hath shall more be given.

Slow on your dial the shadows creep,So many hours for food and sleep,So many hours till study tire,So many hours for heart's desire.

These suns and moons shall memory save,Mirrors bright for her magic cave;Wherein may steadfast eyes beholdA self that groweth never old.

O in such prime enjoy your lot,And when ye leave regret it not;With wishing gifts in festal statePass ye the angel-sworded gate.

Then to the world let shine your light,Children in play be lions in fight,And match with red immortal deedsThe victory that made ring the meads:

Or by firm wisdom save your landFrom giddy head and grasping hand:IMPROVE THE BEST; so shall your sonsBetter what ye have bettered once.

Send them here to the court of graceBearing your name to fill your place:Ye in their time shall live againThe happy dream of Henry's reign:

And on his day your steps be bentWhere, saint and king, crowned with content,He biddeth a prayer to bless his youthWith truth, and purity, mother of truth.

The north wind came up yesternightWith the new year's full moon,And rising as she gained her height,Grew to a tempest soon.Yet found he not on heaven's faceA task of cloud to clear;There was no speck that he might chaseOff the blue hemisphere,Nor vapour from the land to drive:The frost-bound country heldNought motionable or alive,That 'gainst his wrath rebelled.There scarce was hanging in the woodA shrivelled leaf to reave;No bud had burst its swathing hoodThat he could rend or grieve:Only the tall tree-skeletons,Where they were shadowed all,Wavered a little on the stones,And on the white church-wall.

--Like as an artist in his mood,Who reckons all as nought,So he may quickly paint his nude,Unutterable thought:So Nature in a frenzied hourBy day or night will showDim indications of the powerThat doometh man to woe.Ah, many have my visions been,And some I know full well:I would that all that I have seenWere fit for speech to tell.--

And by the churchyard as I came,It seemed my spirit passedInto a land that hath no name,Grey, melancholy and vast;Where nothing comes: but Memory,The widowed queen of Death,Reigns, and with fixed, sepulchral eyeAll slumber banisheth.Each grain of writhen dust, that drapesThat sickly, staring shore,Its old chaotic change of shapesRemembers evermore.And ghosts of cities long decayedAnd ruined shrines of FateGather the paths, that Time hath madeFoolish and desolate.

Nor winter there hath hope of spring,Nor the pale night of day,Since the old king with scorpion stingHath done himself away.

The morn was calm; the wind's last breathHad fal'n: in solemn hushThe golden moon went down beneathThe dawning's crimson flush.