ON THE SPRING.

Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,

The untaught harmony of spring:
While, whispering pleasure as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky
Their gather'd fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch

A broader, browner shade,
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
O'er-canopies the glade,

Beside some water's rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think

(At ease reclined in rustic state)
How vain the ardor of the crowd,
How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great!

Still is the toiling hand of Care;

The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air

The busy murmur glows!

The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honey'd spring

And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some show their gayly-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation's sober eye

Such is the race of man;

And they that creep, and they that fly
Shall end where they began.
Alike the busy and the gay
But flutter thro' life's little day,

In Fortune's varying colors drest:
Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance
Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear in accents low
The sportive kind reply:
Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!

Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,

Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,

And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,

Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning

sit,

In every street these tunes our ears do

greet,

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
Spring! the sweet spring!

THOMAS NASH,

SONG. ON MAY MORNING.

Now the bright morning star, day's har-
binger,

Comes dancing from the east, and leads
with her

The flowery May, who from her green lap
throws

The yellow cowslip and the pale prim

rose.

Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire!
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

JOHN MILTON.

WHEN May is in his prime, and youthful Whenas a thousand virgins on this day

431

Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, | Many a jest told of the key's betraying This night, and locks pick'd: yet w' are not a-Maying.

Against you come, some orient pearls un

wept.

Come, and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night;
And Titan on the eastern hill
Retires himself, or else stands still
Till

you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief
in praying:

Few beads are best, when once we go a-
Maying.

As if here were those cooler shades of
love.

Can such delights be in the street.
And open fields, and we not see 't?
Come! we'll abroad, and let's obey
The proclamation made for May;
And sin no more, as we have done, by
staying,

But, my Corinna, come! let's go a-May

ing.

There's not a budding boy or girl, this
day,

But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
A deal of youth, ere this, is come
Back, and with white thorn laden

home.

Come! let us go while we are in our
prime,

And take the harmless folly of the time;
We shall grow old apace, and die
Before we know our liberty.
Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun;
And as a vapor, or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne'er be found again,
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade,
All love, all liking, all delight

Lies drown'd with us in endless night. Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying,

Come, my.Corinna, come! let's go a-Maying.

ROBERT HERRICK.

SUMMER LONGINGS.

Las mañanas floridas
De Abril y Mayo.

CALDERON.

AH! my heart is weary waiting-
Waiting for the May-
Waiting for the pleasant rambles,
Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles,
With the woodbine alternating,

Scent the dewy way.

Ah! my heart is weary waiting—
Waiting for the May.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May-

Longing to escape from study,
To the young face fair and ruddy,
And the thousand charms belonging

To the summer's day.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for their sure returning,
Sighing for the May—
When the summer beams are burning,
Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying,

All the winter lay.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May.

Ah! my heart is pain'd with throbbing,
Throbbing for the May—
Throbbing for the seaside billows,
Or the water-wooing willows;

Where, in laughing and in sobbing,

Glide the streams away.
Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing,
Throbbing for the May.

Waiting sad, dejected, weary,

Waiting for the May:
Spring goes by with wasted warnings-
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings-
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary
Life still ebbs away;
Man is ever weary, weary,
Waiting for the May!

DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY.

Thou seest their glittering fans outspread,
all gleaming like red gold;
And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their
merry course they hold.
God bless them all, those little ones, who,
far above this earth,

Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and
vent a nobler mirth!

But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound,-
from yonder wood it came!

The spirit of the dim green glade did
breathe his own glad name;—
Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that, apart
from all his kind,

Slow spells his beads monotonous to the
soft western wind;

Cuckoo! cuckoo! he sings again,—his notes are void of art;

THEY COME! THE MERRY SUMMER But simplest strains do soonest sound the

MONTHS.

THEY Come! the merry summer months

of beauty, song, and flowers;

They come the gladsome months that
bring thick leafiness to bowers.
Up, up, my heart! and walk abroad; fling
cark and care aside;

Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where
peaceful waters glide;

Or, underneath the shadow vast of patri

archal tree,

deep founts of the heart.

Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me

To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree!

To suck once more in every breath their little souls away,

And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day,

Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the

in rapt tranquillity.

And, like the kiss of maiden love, the

breeze is sweet and bland;

The daisy and the buttercup are nodding

courteously;

It stirs their blood with kindest love, to

bless and welcome thee;

And mark how with thine own thin locks
—they now are silvery gray—
That blissful breeze is wantoning, and
whispering, "Be gay!"

reckless, truant boy

Wander'd through greenwoods all day long, a mighty heart of joy!

I'm sadder now,—I have had cause; but That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I oh, I'm proud to think

Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, yet delight to drink ;

the calm, unclouded sky, Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days gone by.

When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold,

There is no cloud that sails along the I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse,

ocean of yon sky

But hath its own wing'd mariners to give

heart that hath wax'd old!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

it melody;

SONG TO MAY.

Still, there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn BORN in yon blaze of orient sky,

In the sweet airs of morn;

One almost looks to see the very street

Grow purple at his feet.

Sweet May! thy radiant form unfold,
Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye,

And wave thy shadowy locks of gold.