Ere my poor ear, that hath been used
To live upon thy angel voice;
Its daily sustenance refused,
And forced to wander for a choice,
Can listen to some other tone,
Aud deem it welcome as thine own:
Ere the true heart thou couldst deceive,
Can hope, and dream, and trust once more,
And from another's lips believe
All that THY lips so falsely swore,
And hear those vows of other years
Without a burst of bitter tears:-
Ere I have half my mind explain'd
To one who shares my thoughts too late;
With weary tongue, and spirit pain'd,
And heart that still feels desolate-
Have travell'd through those by-gone days,
Which made life barren to my gaze:
What years must pass! in this world's strife, How small will be my portion then :
The fainting energies of life
Will scarcely serve to love again. Love! to the pale, uncertain flame, The fervent god denies his name.
No! let no wrong'd heart look to mine :
Such fate the wanderer hath in store,
Who worships at a ruin'd shrine,
Where altar-fires can burn no more;
Vain is the incense-vain the prayerNo deity is lingering there!
Oh! never more shall trust return,
Trust, by which love alone can live:
Even while I woo, my heart shall yearn
For answers thou wert wont to give,
And my faint sighs shall echoes be
Of those I breathed long since to thee!
MAY's a word 'tis sweet to hear,
Laughter of the budding year;
Sweet it is to start and say
On May-morning, "This is May !"
But there also breathes a tune,
Hear it-in the sound of "June."
June's a month, and June's a name,
Never yet hath had its fame;
Summer's in the sound of June,
Summer, and a deepen'd tune
Of the bees, and of the birds;
And of loitering lovers' words:
And the brooks that, as they go,
Seem to think aloud, yet low;
And the voice of early heat,
Where the mirth-spun insects meet;
And the very colour's tone,
Russet now, and fervid grown :
All a voice, as if it spoke
Of the brown wood's cottage smoke,
And the sun, and bright green oak.
O come quickly, show thee soon,
Come at once with all thy noon,
Manly, joyous, gipsey June.
May, the jade, with her fresh cheek,
And the love the bards bespeak,
May, by coming first in sight,
Half defrauds thee of thy right;
For her best is shared by thee
With a wealthier potency,
So that thou dost bring us in
A sort of May-time masculine,
Fit for action or for rest,
As the luxury seems the best
Bearding now the morning breeze,
Or in love with paths of trees,
Or dispos'd, full length, to lie
With a hand-enshaded eye
On thy warm and golden slopes,
Basker in the butter-cups,
Listening with nice distant ears
To the shepherd's clapping shears,
Or the next field's laughing play
In the happy wars of hay,
While its perfume breathes all over, Or the bean comes fine, or clover.
O could I walk round the earth,
With a heart to share my mirth,
With a look to love me ever,
Thoughtful much, but sullen never,
I could be content to see
June and no variety,
Loitering here, and living there,
With a book and frugal fare,
With a finer gipsey time,
And a cuckoo in the clime,
Work at morn, and mirth at noon,
And sleep beneath the sacred moon.
O EARLIEST singer! O care-charming bird!
Married to morning by a sweeter hymn
Than priest e'er chaunted from his cloister dim
At midnight; or veil'd virgin's holier word,
At sun-rise, or the paler evening heard ;—
To which of all heaven's young and lovely hours, That wreathe soft light in hyacinthine bowers, Beautiful spirit, is thy suit preferr'd?—
Unlike the creatures of this low dull earth,
Still dost thou woo although thy suit be won ;
And thus thy mistress bright is pleased ever.
Oh! lose not thou this mark of finer birth;
So may'st thou yet live on from sun to sun,
Thy joy uncheck'd, thy sweet song silent never.
I AM COME BACK TO MY BOWER.
O'tis the heart that magnifies this life,
Making a truth and beauty of her own.
I AM come back to my bower,
But it is not as of yore,
Withered every glowing flower,
And the leaves are green no more;
Winter winds are sighing
Where summer breezes strayed;
Winter mists are lying
Where the sunbeams played;
Hope, the sprite that gladdens,
Flees upon the blast,
Memory, that but saddens,
Lingers to the last :
Telling of the roses,
Telling of the joys,
That life in spring discloses,
Its waning time destroys.
I am come back to my bower,
'Tis precious as of yore,
Though withered every flower,
And the leaves are green no more;
Though mute the lark and linnet,
And still the humming bee,
Affection dwells within it,
A summer world to me;
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