Poems (Welby)/To the Sky-Lark

by Amelia Welby

TO THE SKY-LARK.

Thou little bird, thou lov'st to dwell
 Beneath the summer leaves!
The sunlight round thy mossy cell
 A golden halo weaves;
And the sweet dews, where'er we pass,
Like living diamonds gem the grass,
 And round the mossy eaves
The twittering swallow circling flies,
As happy as the laughing skies.

Soft as a bride, the rosy dawn
 From dewy sleep doth rise,
And, bathed in blushes, hath withdrawn
 The mantle from her eyes;
And, with her orbs dissolved in dew,
Bends like an angel softly through,
 The blue-pavilioned skies.
Then up, and pour thy mellow lay,
To greet the young and radiant day!

Hark! now with low and fluttering start,
 The sky-lark soars above,
And from her full melodious heart
 She pours her strains of love;
And now her quivering wings fling back
The golden light, that floods her track,
 Now scarcely seems to move,
But floats awhile on waveless wings,
Then soars away, and, soaring, sings.

Bird of the pure and dewy morn!
 How soft thy heavenward lay
Floats up, where light and life are born
 Around the rosy day!
And, as the balm that fills the hour
Lies soft upon each waving flower,
 The happy wind at play
Tells, as its voice goes laughing by,
The lark is singing in the sky.

When shall thy fearless wing find rest,
 Bird of the dewy hours?
When wilt thou seek thy little nest,
 Close hid among the flowers?
Not till the bright clouds, one by one,
Are marshalled round the setting sun,
 In heaven's celestial bowers,
Shall the old forest round thee fling
Its mournful shades, O lonely thing!

Lonely! and did I call thee lone?
 'T was but a careless word:
The round blue heaven is all thine own,
 O free and happy bird!
Wherever laughs a singing rill,
Or points to heaven a verdant hill,
 Thy waving wing hath stirred;
For all sweet things, where'er they be,
Are like familiar friends to thee.

Could I, O living lute of heaven!
 But learn to act thy part,
And use the gift so freely given,
 That floods my inmost heart;
Each morn, my melting strains of love
Should rise like thine to Him above,
 Who made thee what thou art,
And spread abroad each waving tree,
For thee, O little bird! for thee.

And shall the poet envy thee,
 Bird of the quivering wing,
Whose soul immortal, swift, and free,
 Should ever soar and sing?
Predestined for a loftier flight,
The spirit, filled with heavenly light,
 From this cold earth shall spring,
And soar where thou canst never roam,
Bird of the blue and breezy dome!

O! if our hearts were never stirred,
 By harsher sounds than these—
The low sweet singing of a bird,
 The murmur of the breeze,—
How soft would glide our fleeting hours,
Blest as the sunshine and the flowers,
 And calm as summer seas!
Linked hand in hand with Love and Hope
We'd wander down life's flowery slope.