Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine; I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphal chant, Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt,-- A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee; Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught: Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever could come near. Better than all measures Of delight and sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground. Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. ROBERT SOUTHEY SOUTHEY, ROBERT, was born at Bristol, England, in August, 1774. He was educated at Westminster School and at Balliol College, Oxford. After some years of wandering he took up his residence (1803) at Greta Hall, near Keswick, where he continued to live until his death in 1843. In 1813 he was made poet laureate. Although Southey wrote much prose, he is chiefly known as a poet, and his poems are innumerable. His little piece, _The Battle of Blenheim_, though one of the least pretentious of his works, has been very widely quoted, and is here given for the sake of younger readers. THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM It was a summer's evening; Old Kaspar's work was done; And he before his cottage door, Was sitting in the sun; And near him sported on the green, His little grandchild, Wilhelmine: She saw her brother, Peterkin, Roll something smooth and round, Which he, beside the rivulet, In playing there had found. He came to ask what he had found, Which looked so large, and smooth, and round.