Of sunrise on the slopes of snowy Himelay!
North, south, or east, or west,
Across yon showery lea,
To tune thy yellow bill
On the bough that I love best,
Or by the window sill
Flit fine with dusky breast
North, south, or east, or west,
Whence may thy sweet flight be?

Since north, south, east, and west are all the same
to thee,
Thrice happy, happy bird, that everywhere art free,
And hast the world to roam,
Go or come!

Thro' dark lattice leaves,
Under humid eaves,
Say, what drowsy ear,
When the dawn was dumb,
Hath caught with inward cheer
Echoes of days to come
From thy fleeting note,
Faint in fields remote?
Thou, with fervid flight
High, 'twixt dark and light,
Ranging the reckless wind by many a land and sea,
Back to thy ancient home,
An ever-rainy dome
Of lightly-rustling leaves in yon pale apple-tree!

But churlish welcome hast thou! Spring delays
To justify thy mission: vague and blurr'd,
The blue woods watch thee: last night's rain yet
stays
Along the trenchèd fields: no leaf is stirr'd
To thy sweet summons: Winter hath not ended
Wet walkings up and down these dismal ways.
Earth, all in stark amaze,
Coldly thy note hath heard;
And still she looks perplext, still listens half offended,
Not trusting in thy word.
Poor solitary bird,
Thou comest before thy time, and unattended!
Thy boldest prophecies
Are mockt by cloudy skies:
Thy sweetest songs are all uncomprehended.
Yet still, of better days
Thou singest undeterr'd;
Still chantest thy lone lays
In merry scorn of praise,
Befriending thus a land that leaves thee unbefriended.

Sure of many a tongue,
Learn'd in many a land,
Thou must know some song
All can understand!
Learnèd is thy race!
(If from books one gathers
Truth) for in the days
Ours were merely barbarous,
Thy well-taught forefathers
Greek apophthegms did once discuss
With Drusus and Britannicus,
Philosophers in feathers!
Doth thy joy so chafe
At the thought of capture?
Would'st thou but vouchsafe
Reasons for this rapture!
Wherefore vex old sadness
With a hale of joy
All we see gainsays?
Might we share thy gladness!

Prophets, sure, should justify
Hopes that prophets raise.
Is the world so wrong?
Show, then, in thy song
How our griefs are mended.
We have suffer'd long:
Discontent is strong;
Not to be displaced by words, however splendid.
Prithee, Prophet, show us, then, proof with promise
blended!

No! To the windy poplar art thou flown;
To rock thyself against a hueless cloud:
Joying to be alone,
In luxury of a knowledge disallow'd.
Yet knowledge never comes to earth unknown,
Tho' time is dull, and careless is the crowd.
Hearing thee call so loud,
With such a merry tone,
I in my soul receive
A sense of things unseen,
A gladness from thine own:
The woods are barely green,
And yet I do believe
A primrose hath been blown.

Thou bird of bliss, thrice hail!
And may thy voice prevail,
Till all the world to thy glad creed is won!
Envy not thou Cëyx, or Halcyon,
Their swooning seas, faint-lighted lands of fable,
And foamless isles, the tempest strikes not on,
That sleep in harbours green and hospitable;
For thou within thyself, despite foul weather,
Hast golden calms and glories,
Like windless lights where wizards meet together
On stormy promontories.
With notes that may prevail
Thro' sleet of sunlit hail,
Sing out thy happy news, and yet again
Tell all the flowery tale
That blossoms in thy brain!
O leave to the luxurious nightingale
Her moon-loved revels and her lush delights
In dewy leaves by many a dappled dale,
Or pleasant lawn, star-sweet on summer nights!
Thine is the Bardie chant, the battle strain,
The strenuous impulse thine,
Antagonising wind, and weary rain,
In the tough-headed pine.
Leave to the lark his golden chariotings,
And songs Memnonian in the shrill sunrise;
Leave him his red corn-lands where radiance clings:
Thy kingdom, with the coming season, lies
Safe in some happy valley of fond Time,
Where yet moss-bound primroses,
And many a young first-love, and musèd rhyme
Thy clear-voiced call uncloses.
So let me now thy first of poets be,
Thy novice, ay, and nimble
Disciple, that shall make men honour thee;
The while, in a happy tremble,
My fancy roams from similie
To similie in search of aught
That, in the flowery realm of thought,
She may to thee resemble.

I'll tell them thou art like
Stout Scalds, whose lays could strike
Thick glow of sterling thought and stalwart deed
Thro' crash of axe, and clash of sword,
To some old barbarian horde,
Brought low at last by a lovelier creed.
I'll say, a shipboy on a mast,
Heeding not the soughing blast