CHILDREN IN SPRING.

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;

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DAY, A PASTORAL.

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-brier hips beside the door.

CLARE.

DAY: A PASTORAL.

IN the barn the tenant cock,

Close to Partlet perched on high, Briskly crows (the shepherd's clock)! Jocund that the morning's nigh.

Swiftly from the mountain's brow,

Shadows, nursed by night, retire:

And the peeping sunbeam, now,

Paints with gold the village spire.

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-roofed cottage ridge,
See the chatt'ring swallow spring;
Darting through the one-arched 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, uncloyed (Restless till her task be done),

Now the busy bee's employed

Sipping dew before the sun.

Trickling through the creviced rock,

Where the limpid stream distils,

CORINNA'S GOING A MAYING.

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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 emblossomed spray!
Nature's universal song

Echoes to the rising day.

JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

CORINNA'S GOING A MAYING.

GET up, get up for shame! the blooming Morn
Upon her wings presents the God unshorn!
See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colors through the air!—
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed! and see

The dew bespangling herb and tree.

Each flower has wept and bowed towards the east Above an hour since, yet you are not dressed!—

Nay, not so much as out of bed,

When all the birds have matins said,

And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin-
Nay, profanation, to keep in,

Whereas a thousand virgins on this day

Spring sooner than the lark, to fetch in May!

Rise! and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,
And sweet as Flora. Take no care

For jewels for your gown or hair;

Fear not, for the leaves will strew

Gems in abundance upon you;

Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept :
Come, and receive them while the light

Till

Hangs on the dew-locks of the night,

And Titan on the eastern hill

Retires himself, or else stands still

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

Few beads are best when once we go a Maying.

Come, my Corinna! come, and coming, mark How each field turns a street-each street a park,