CLARE.

MAY.

WHEN apple-trees in blossom are,

And cherries of a silken white;
And king-cups deck the meadows fair;
And daffodils in brooks delight;
When golden wall-flowers bloom around,
And purple violets scent the ground,
And lilac 'gins to show her bloom,—
We then may say the May is come.

When happy shepherds tell their tale
Under the tender leafy tree;

And all adown the

grassy vale

The mocking cuckoo chanteth free;
And Philomel, with liquid throat,
Doth pour the welcome, warbling note,
That had been all the Winter dumb,-
We then may say the May is come.

When fishes leap in silver stream,

And tender corn is springing high,

And banks are warm with sunny beam,

And twittering swallows cleave the sky,

And forest bees are humming near,

And cowslips in boys' hats appear,

And maids do wear the meadow's bloom,-
We then may say the May is come.

E

MOIR.

COME hither, come hither, and view the face
Of Nature, enrobed in her vernal grace.
By the hedgerow wayside flowers are springing;
On the budding elms the birds are singing;
And up-up-up to the gates of heaven

Mounts the lark, on the wings of her rapture driven;
The voice of the streamlet is fresh and loud;
On the sky there is not a speck of cloud:
Come hither, come hither, and join with me,
In the season's delightful jubilee!

guess

with me,

Come hither, come hither, and
How fair and how fruitful the year will be!
Look into the pasture-grounds o'er the pale,
And behold the foal with its switching tail,
About and abroad, in its mirth it flies,
With its long black forelocks about its eyes;
Or bends its neck down with a stretch,
The daisy's earliest flowers to reach.
See! as on by the hawthorn fence we pass,
How the sheep are nibbling the tender grass,
Or holding their heads to the sunny ray,
As if their hearts, like its smile, were gay;
While the chattering sparrows, in and out,
Fly the shrubs, and the trees, and roofs about;
And sooty rooks, loudly cawing, roam,
With sticks and straws, to their woodland home.

How still the morning of the hallow'd day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd
The plough-boy's whistle, and the milk-maid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yester-morn bloom'd waving in the breeze.
The faintest sounds attract the ear-the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,