All down in the grove, Sweet music floats; And dance we away, GOTTFRIED VON NIFEN, about 1200. Translation of E. TAYLOR. MAY. FROM THE GERMAN MINNESINGERS. May, sweet May, again is come- On the laughing hedgerow's side She hath spread her treasures wide; Hill and dale are May's own treasures. Sing ye! join the chorus gay! Up, then, children! we will go We the bursting flowers will see : Where gay hearts are meeting-there May hath pleasures most inviting, Heart, and sight, and ear delighting. Listen to the bird's sweet song; Hark! how soft it floats along! Courtly dames our pleasures share! Our manly youths, where are they now? To the sporters on the plain : Bid adieu to care and pain, Now, thou pale and wounded lover! In the smiling verdure twined; Richly steeped in May-dews glowing. Sing ye! join the chorus gay! O, if to my love restored- I will praise this changeless one : Youths, then join the chorus gay! Translation of EDGAR TAYLOR. CONRAD V. KIRCHBERG, about 1170. SONG. FROM "ANGLING REMINISCENCES." Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! Meet the morn upon the lea; On the angler's trysting-tree? Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me! Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! 'Round the angler's trysting-tree? Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! Through the angler's trysting-tree? Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! To the flowery haunts of spring- Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me! Are there flowers 'neath our willow-tree? Spring and flowers at the trysting-tree? MAY. I feel a newer life in every gale; The winds that fan the flowers, And with their welcome breathings fill the sail, Tell of serener hours Of hours that glide unfelt away, The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls From his blue throne of air; And where his whispering voice in music falls, Beauty is budding there. The bright ones of the valley break Their slumbers, and awake. STODDART. The waving verdure rolls along the plain, To welcome back its playful mates again, And from its darkening shadow floats, Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May; With the light dallying of the west-wind play, As gladly to their goal they run, JAMES G. PERCIVAL. VII. The Flock. DY YER'S poem of "The Fleece," though little read now-adays, has found warm admirers among the great poets of England. Akenside once remarked that he should regulate his opinion of the public taste by the reception of "The Fleece;" for if it were not to succeed, "he should think it no longer reasonable to expect fame from excellence." And Mr. Wordsworth appears to have been very much of the same opinion: "Bard of The Fleece,' whose skillful genius made Though party Fame hath many a chaplet culled |