His mother, wondering, saw him cry, And fondly ask’d the reason why? Then Richard made confession, And said, he fear’d the little bird He singing in the air had heard Was telling his transgression. The words which Richard spoke below, As sounds by nature upwards go, Were to the skylark carried: The airy traveller with surprise, To hear his sayings, in the skies On his mid-journey tarried. His anger then the bird express’d: “Sure, since the day I left the nest, I ne’er heard folly utter’d So fit to move a skylark’s mirth, As what this little son of earth Hath in his grossness mutter’d. “Dull fool! to think we sons of air On man’s low actions waste a care, His virtues or his vices; Or soaring on the summer gales That we should stoop to carry tales Of him or his devices! “Mistaken fool! man needs not us His secret merits to discuss, Or spy out his transgression; When once he feels his conscience stirr’d, That voice within him is the _bird_ That moves him to confession.” [Illustration: THE RAINBOW] III After the tempest in the sky, How sweet yon rainbow to the eye! Come, my Matilda, now while some Few drops of rain are yet to come, In this honeysuckle bower Safely shelter’d from the shower, We may count the colours o’er. Seven there are, there are no more; Each in each so finely blended, Where they begin, or where are ended, The finest eye can scarcely see. A fixed thing it seems to be; But, while we speak, see how it glides Away, and now observe it hides Half of its perfect arch; now we Scarce any part of it can see. What is colour? If I were A natural philosopher, I would tell you what does make This meteor every colour take; [Illustration] But an unlearned eye may view Nature’s rare sights, and love them too. Whenever I a rainbow see, Each precious tint is dear to me; For every colour find I there Which flowers, which fields, which ladies wear; My favourite green, the grass’s hue, And the fine deep violet-blue, And the pretty pale blue-bell, And the rose I love so well; All the wondrous variations Of the tulip, pinks, carnations; This woodbine here, both flower and leaf; ’Tis a truth that’s past belief, That every flower and every tree And every living thing we see, Every face which we espy, Every cheek and every eye, In all their tints, in every shade, Are from the rainbow’s colours made. [Illustration] [Illustration: QUEEN ORIANA’S DREAM] IV