The summer is coming, on soft winds borne-
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn!
For me, I depart to a brighter shore—

Ye are mark'd by care, ye are mine no more:

I go where the loved who have left you dwell,

And the flowers are not Death's.-Fare ye well, farewell!

SPENSER.

YOUNG folk now flock in everywhere,
To gather May-bushes, and smelling brere.
And home they hasten, the posts to dight,
And all the kirk pillars, ere day-light,
With hawthorn-buds, and sweet eglantine,
And garlands of roses.

Even this morning—no longer ago,

I saw a shole of shepherds outgo,

With singing, and shouting, and jolly cheer :

Before them went a lusty tabourer,

That unto many a hornpipe play'd,

Whereto they danced, each one with his maid.
To see these folk making such joyance
Made my heart after the pipe to dance.
Then to the greenwood they speed them all
To fetch home May, with their musical:
And home they bring him, in a royal throne,
Crowned as king; and his queen-fair one,
Was Lady Flora, on whom did attend
A fair flock of fairies, and a fresh bend
Of lovely nymphs. O that I were there,
To help the ladies their May-bush to bear!

EARL OF SURREY.

THE sweet season that bud and bloome forth brings, With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale; The nightingale with feathers new she sings;

The turtle to her mate hath told her tale.
Summer is come, for every spray now springs,

The hart hath hung his old head on the pale,
The buck in brake his winter-coat he flings,
The fishes fleet with new-repaired scale:
The adder all her slough away she flings,

The swift swallow pursues the fliès small,
The busy bee her honey now she mings.

Winter is worn that was the flower's bale, And thus I see, among those pleasant things, Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.

MILTON.

ON MAY MORNING.

Now the bright morning-star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May! that dost 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.

CLARE.

THE snow has left the cottage-top;

The thatch-moss grows in brighter green; And eaves in quick succession drop, Where grinning icicles have been, Pit-patting with a pleasant noise

In tubs set by the cottage-door; While ducks and geese, with happy joys, Plunge in the yard-pond brimming o'er. The sun peeps through the window-pane, Which children mark with laughing eye, And in the wet streets steal again,

To tell each other spring is nigh. Then as young Hope the past recalls, In playing groups they often draw, To build beside the sunny walls

Their spring-time huts of sticks or straw.

And oft in pleasure's dream they hie
Round homesteads by the village side,
Scratching the hedge-row mosses by,

Where painted pooty shells abide;
Mistaking oft the ivy spray

For leaves that come with budding spring, And wondering, in their search for play, Why birds delay to build and sing. The mavis thrush, with wild delight, Upon the orchard's dripping tree Mutters, to see the day so bright,

Fragments of young Hope's poesy; And Dame oft stops her buzzing wheel,

To hear the robin's note once more, Who tootles while he pecks his meal From sweet-briar hips beside the door.

JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

DAY: A PASTORAL.

IN the barn the tenant cock,
Close to Partlet perch'd on high,
Briskly crows (the shepherd's clock)!
Jocund that the morning's nigh.

Philomel forsakes the thorn,
Plaintive where she prates at night;
And the lark, to meet the morn,
Soars beyond the shepherd's sight.

From the low-roof'd cottage ridge,
See the chatt'ring swallow spring;
Darting through the one-arch'd bridge,
Quick she dips her dappled wing.

Now the pine-tree's waving top

Gently greets the morning gale! Kidlings, now, begin to crop Daisies, in the dewy dale.

From the balmy sweets, uncloy'd,
(Restless till her task be done),
Now the busy bee's employ'd
Sipping dew before the sun.

Trickling through the creviced rock,
Where the limpid stream distills,

Sweet refreshment waits the flock
When 'tis sun-drove from the hills.

Colin, for the promised corn

(Ere the harvest hopes are ripe) Anxious, hears the huntsman's horn, Boldly sounding, drown his pipe.

Sweet, O sweet, the warbling throng, On the white emblossom'd spray! Nature's universal song

Echoes to the rising day.