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Yet one more round! who struck so high?
That soaring flight assures
A vigorous arm, a faultless eye,
—Dear Father, whose but yours?
And whose but yours the wit that flies
In richest sparkles round,
Wit that is wisdom in disguise,
Sense that disports in sound.
But stay! the visions throng too fast!
O calm and sylvan scene,
Renounce that dangerous spell, the past,
Let what has been have been!
Such awful insight unto me
Thine aspect doth reveal,
As almost 'tis too much to see,
Ah, how much more to feel!
TO A CUCKOO IN AUTUMN.
O sadly sung—or sadly heard!
How came into thy throat,
O Cuckoo blithe, thou vernal bird,
That melancholy note?
