Four Faery Songs

Shed no tear! oh, shed no tear!
The flower will bloom another year.
Weep no more! oh, weep no more!
Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
Dry your eyes! oh, dry your eyes!
For I was taught in Paradise
To ease my breast of melodies, -- 
                            Shed no tear.

Overhead! look overhead!
'Mong the blossoms white and red -- 
Look up, look up! I flutter now
On this fresh pomegranate bough.
See me! 'tis this silvery bill
Ever cures the good man's ill.
Shed no tear! oh, shed no tear!
The flower will bloom another year.
Adieu, adieu -- I fly -- adieu!
I vanish in the heaven's blue, -- 
                             Adieu, adieu!

Ah! woe is me! poor Silver-wing!
That I must chaunt thy lady’s dirge,
And death to this fair haunt of spring,
Of melody, and streams of flowery verge, —
Poor Silver-wing! Ah! woe is me!
That I must see
These blossoms snow upon thy lady’s pall!
Go, pretty page, and in her ear
Whisper that the hour is near!
Softly tell her not to fear
Such calm favonian burial!
Go, pretty page, and soothly tell, —
The blossoms hang by a melting spell,
And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice
Upon her closed eyes,
That now in vain are weeping their last tears,
At sweet life leaving, and these arbours green, —
Rich dowry from the spirit of the spheres, —
Alas! poor queen!

Unfelt, unheard, unseen,
I’ve left my little queen,
Her languid arms in silver slumber lying:
Ah! through their nestling touch,
Who — who could tell how much
There is for madness — cruel, or complying?
Those faery lids how sleek!
Those lips how moist! — they speak,
In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds:
Into my fancy’s ear
Melting a burden dear,
How Love doth know no fulness, and no bounds.
True — tender monitors!
I bend unto your laws:
This sweetest day for dalliance was born!
So, without more ado,
I’ll feel my heaven anew,
For all the blushing of the hasty morn.

'Tis the witching hour of night,
Orbed is the moon and bright,
And the stars they glisten, glisten,
Seeming with bright eyes to listen —
⁠    For what listen they?
For a song and for a charm,
See they glisten in alarm,
And the moon is waxing warm
⁠    To her what I shall say.
Moon! keep wide thy golden ears —
Hearken, stars ! and hearken, spheres! —
Hearken, thou eternal sky!
I sing an infant's lullaby,
⁠    A pretty lullaby.
Listen, listen, listen, listen,
Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten,
⁠    And hear my lullaby!
Though the rushes that will make
Its cradle still are in the lake —
Though the linen that will be
Its swathe, is on the cotton tree —
Though the woollen that will keep
It warm, is on the silly sheep —
Listen, starlight, listen, listen,
Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten.
    And hear my lullaby.
Child, I see thee! Child, I've found thee
Midst of the quiet all around thee!
Child, I see thee! Child, I spy thee!
And thy mother sweet is nigh thee!
Child, I know thee! Child no more,
But a Poet evermore!
See, see, the lyre, the lyre,
In a flame of fire,
Upon the little cradle's top
Flaring, flaring, flaring,
Past the eyesight's bearing.
Awake it from its sleep,
And see if it can keep
Its eyes upon the blaze —
⁠    Amaze, amaze!
It stares, it stares, it stares,
It dares what no one dares!
It lifts its little hand into the flame
Unharmed, and on the strings
Paddles a little tune, and sings,
With dumb endeavor sweetly —
Bard art thou completely!
    ⁠Little child
⁠    O' th' western wild,
Bard art thou completely!
Sweetly with dumb endeavor,
A Poet now or never,
⁠    Little child
⁠    O' th' western wild,
A poet now or never!