The old mythologists, more impress’d than we Of this late day by character in tree Or herb, that claimed peculiar sympathy, Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear, Or with the language of the viewless air 15 By bird or beast made vocal, sought a cause To solve the mystery, not in Nature’s laws But in Man’s fortunes. Hence a thousand tales Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales. Nor doubt that something of their spirit swayed 20 The fancy-stricken Youth or heart-sick Maid, Who, while each stood companionless and eyed This undeparting Flower in crimson dyed, Thought of a wound which death is slow to cure, A fate that has endured and will endure, 25 And, patience coveting yet passion feeding, Called the dejected Lingerer, _Love lies bleeding_. [256] The date of the composition of this poem is uncertain, but, as “companion” to _Love lies Bleeding_, it must be placed in immediate succession to it.--ED. THE CUCKOO-CLOCK Composed 1842.--Published 1842 [Of this clock I have nothing further to say than what the poem expresses, except that it must be here recorded that it was a present from the dear friend for whose sake these notes were chiefly undertaken, and who has written them from my dictation.--I.F.] One of the “Poems of the Imagination.”--ED. Wouldst thou be taught, when sleep has taken flight, By a sure voice that can most sweetly tell, How far-off yet a glimpse of morning light, And if to lure the truant back be well, Forbear to covet a Repeater’s stroke, 5 That, answering to thy touch, will sound the hour; Better provide thee with a Cuckoo-clock For service hung behind thy chamber-door; And in due time the soft spontaneous shock, The double note, as if with living power, 10 Will to composure lead--or make thee blithe as bird in bower. List, Cuckoo--Cuckoo!--oft tho’ tempests howl, Or nipping frost remind thee trees are bare, How cattle pine, and droop the shivering fowl, Thy spirits will seem to feed on balmy air: 15 I speak with knowledge,--by that Voice beguiled, Thou wilt salute old memories as they throng Into thy heart; and fancies, running wild Through fresh green fields, and budding groves among, Will make thee happy, happy as a child; 20 Of sunshine wilt thou think, and flowers, and song, And breathe as in a world where nothing can go wrong.