Such shaking doth the fever in me keep Through all this May, that I have little sleep And also 't is not likely unto me, That any living heart should sleepy be, Foolish men he can make them out of wise-In which Love's dart its fiery point doth steep And soon as I a glimpse of day espied, For now, when they may hear the small birds' And held the pathway down by a brook-side; song, And see the budding leaves the branches throng, This unto their remembrance doth bring XIII. Till to a lawn I came, all white and green; I in so fair a one had never been: All kinds of pleasure, mixed with sorrowing; The ground was green, with daisy powdered And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long. VII. And of that longing heaviness doth come, Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home; Sick are they all for lack of their desire; And thus in May their hearts are set on fire, So that they burn forth in great martyrdom. VIII. In sooth, I speak from feeling; what though now Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow; over; Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover, All green and white, and nothing else was seen. XIV. There sat I down among the fair, fresh flowers, And saw the b-ds come tripping from their bowers, Where they had rested them all night; and they, Who were so joyful at the light of day, Began to honor May with all their powers. Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sat upon, What! quoth she then, what is 't that ails thee And also would I that they all were dead, Who do not think in love their life to lead, For who is loth the God of Love to obey Is only fit to die, I dare well say; Ah! good sweet Nightingale! for my heart's And for that cause OSEE I cry; take heed! cheer, Hence hast thou stayed a little while too long; XXVIII. Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint lawThat all must love or die; but I withdraw, And take my leave of all such company, XXXVII. What! quoth she, thou art all out of thy mind, And therefore, Nightingale! do thou keep That, in thy churlishness, a cause canst find nigh; For, trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry, XXXVIII. Fie, quoth she, on thy name, bird ill beseen! XXXIX. For evermore his servants Love amendeth, XL. Thou Nightingale! the Cuckoo said, be still, XLI. With such a master would I never be, Within his court full seldom truth avails, XLII. Then of the Nightingale did I take noteHow from her inmost heart a sigh she brought And mind always that thou be good and true, That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak. And then did she begin this song full high, LVI. And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord, LVII. And all this shall be done, without a nay, Before the chamber-window of the Queen, At Woodstock, on the meadow green and gay. LVIII. She thanked them; and then her leave she took, And flew into a hawthorn by that brook; And there she sat and sung, upon that tree, "For term of life Love shall have hold of me," So loudly, that I with that song awoke. Unlearned Book and rude, as well I know,— Alas, poor Book! for thy unworthiness Beseech her meekly with all lowliness, L'ENVOY. Pleasure's Aurora, day of gladsomeness! Luna by night, with heavenly influence Illumined! root of beauty and goodness! Since of all good you are the best alive. GEOFFREY CHAUCER Version of WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. SONG. SEE, oh see! How every tree, Every bower, Every flower, A new life gives to others' joys: While that I Grief-stricken lie, Nor can meet With any sweet But what faster mine destroys. Hear, oh hear! How sweet and clear The nightingale In concert join for others' ear; For harmony, Echoes despair, And every drop provokes a tear. THE GREEN LINNET. BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs, that shed In this sequsstered nook, how sweet And birds and flowers once more to greet. One have I marked, the happiest guest In all this covert of the blest; |