Page:Poems Cook.djvu/215

Of the white Gull's cry and the Petrel's shriek.
For out on the ocean, leagues away,
 Madly skimmeth the boding flock,—
The storm-fire burns, but what care they?
'Tis the season of joy and the time for play;
When the thunder-peal and the breaker's spray
 Are bursting and boiling around the rock.

Lovers linger in the vale
 While the twilight gathers round,
With a fear lest mortal ear
 Should listen to the whisper'd sound.
They would have no peering eye
 While they tell the secret tale,
Not a spy may venture nigh,
 Save the gentle Nightingale.
Perch'd upon the tree close by,
He may note each trembling sigh;
Swinging on the nearest bough,
He may witness every vow.
Favour'd bird, oh! thou hast heard
Many a soft and mystic word,
While the night-wind scarcely stirr'd,
And the stars were in the sky.

Up in the morning, while the dew
 Is splashing in crystals o'er him;
The ploughman hies to the upland rise,
 But the Lark is there before him:
He sings while the team is yoked to the share;
 He sings when the mist is going;
He sings when the noon-tide south is fair;
 He sings when the west is glowing:
Now his pinions are spread o'er the peasant's head,
 Now he drops in the furrow behind him;
Oh! the Lark is a merry and constant mate,
 Without favour or fear to bind him.

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