Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long,
And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad,
The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm.
So hallowed and so gracious is that time.
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The pretty Lark, climbing the Welkin cleer,
Chaunts with a cheer, Heer peer-I neer my Deer;
Then read more
The pretty Lark, climbing the Welkin cleer,
Chaunts with a cheer, Heer peer-I neer my Deer;
Then stooping thence (seeming her fall to rew)
Adieu (she saith) adieu, deer Deer, adieu.
Oh, stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray,
A hapless lover courts read more
Oh, stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray,
A hapless lover courts thy lay,
Thy soothing, fond complaining.
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The read more
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms
read more
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy swelling-place--
O, to abide in the desert with thee!
The merry lark he soars on high,
No worldly thought o'ertakes him.
He sings aloud to the read more
The merry lark he soars on high,
No worldly thought o'ertakes him.
He sings aloud to the clear blue sky,
And the daylight that awakes him.
Hail to thee blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
read more
Hail to thee blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high
And read more
Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high
And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast
The sun ariseth in his majesty;
Who doth the world so gloriously behold
That cedar tops and hills seem burnished gold.
Then my dial goes not true; I look this lark for a bunting.
Then my dial goes not true; I look this lark for a bunting.
Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus gins arise,
His steeds to water at read more
Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes.
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise,
Arise, arise!
