“Hark! hark! the lark” sings ’mid the silvery blue; Behold her flight, proud man! and lowly bow. She seems the first that does for pardon sue, As though the guilty stain which lurks below Had touched the flowers that drooped above her brow, When she all night slept by the daisies’ side; And now she soars where purity doth flow, Where new-born light is with no sin allied, And pointing with her wings Heaven-ward our thoughts would guide. In belted gold the bees with “merry march” Through flowery towns go sounding on their way: They pass the streakèd woodbine’s sun-stained arch, And onward glide through streets of sheeted May, Nor till they reach the summer-roses stay, Where maiden-buds are wrapt in dewy dreams, Drowsy through breathing back the new-mown hay, That rolls its fragrance o’er the fringèd streams,-- Mirrors in which the Sun now decks his quivering beams. Uprise the lambs, fresh from their flowery slumber, (The daisies they pressed down rise from the sod;)-- He guardeth them who every star doth number, Who called His Son a lamb,--“the Lamb of God;” And for His sake withdrew th’ uplifted rod, Bidding each cloud turn to a silvery fleece, The imaged flock for which our Shepherd trod The paths of sorrow, that we might find peace:-- Those emblems of his love will wave till time shall cease. On the far sky leans the old ruined mill, Through its rent sails the broken sunbeams glow, Gilding the trees that belt the lower hill, And the old thorns which on its summit grow. Only the reedy marsh that sleeps below, With its dwarf bushes, is concealed from view; And now a struggling thorn its head doth show, Another half shakes off the smoky blue, Just where the dusty gold streams through the heavy dew: And there the hidden river lingering dreams, You scarce can see the banks which round it lie; That withered trunk, a tree, or shepherd seems, Just as the light or fancy strikes the eye. Even the very sheep, which graze hard by, So blend their fleeces with the misty haze, They look like clouds shook from the unsunned sky, Ere morning o’er the eastern hills did blaze:-- The vision fades as they move further on to graze. A chequered light streams in between the leaves, Which on the greensward twinkle in the sun; The deep-voiced thrush his speckled bosom heaves, And like a silver stream his song doth run, Down the low vale, edgèd with fir-trees dun. A little bird now hops beside the brook, “Peaking” about like an affrighted nun; And ever as she drinks doth upward look, Twitters and drinks again, then seeks her cloistered nook.