MAY.

83

ΜΑΥ.

"Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear,

Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year."

EE the Spring

Is the earth enamelling,

And the birds on every tree

Greet this morn with melody.

Hark! how yonder throstle chaunts it,
And her mate as proudly vaunts it.
See how every stream is drest,
By her margin, with the best

Of Flora's gifts; she seems glad,

For such brooks, such flowers she had;

All the trees are quaintly tired
With green buds, of all desired;
And the hawthorn, every day,
Spreads some little show of May.
See the primrose sweetly set
By the much-loved violet,
Which the banks do sweetly cover,
As they would invite a lover,
With his lass, to see their dressing,
And to grace them by their pressing.

THE VOICE OF SPRING.

I COME, I come! ye have called me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song,
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South; and the chestnut-flowers,

By thousands, have burst from the forest-bowers,

And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,

Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains.
-But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

I have passed o'er the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,

And the reindeer bounds through the pasture free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,

And the moss looks bright where my step has been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
And called out each voice of the deep blue sky,
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir bough into verdure breaks.

"THE TIME OF THE SINGING OF BIRDS IS COME."

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain :

They are sweeping on to the silvery main,

They are flashing down from the mountain-brows,
They are flinging spray on the forest boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may now be your home.
Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly,

With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay:
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay!

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in wood and glen ;
Away from the chamber and dusky hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth,
Their light stems thrill to the wild wood strains,
And Youth is abroad in my green domains.

85

"THE TIME OF THE SINGING OF BIRDS IS COME."

THE lark, when she means to rejoice, and cheer herself and those that hear her, quits the earth, and sings as she ascends higher into the air; and, having ended her heavenly employment, grows then mute and sad to think she must descend to the dull earth, which she would not touch but for necessity. How do the blackbird and throstle with their melodious voices bid welcome to the cheerful Spring, and

in their fixed months warble forth such ditties as no art or instrument can reach to ! Nay, the smaller birds also do the like in their particular seasons, as namely, the laverock, the titlark, the little linnet, and the honest robin, that loves mankind both alive and dead. But the nightingale, another of my airy creatures, breathes such sweet loud music out of her little instrumental throat, that it might make mankind to think miracles are not ceased. He that at midnight, when the very labourer sleeps securely, should hear, as I have very often, the clear airs, the sweet discants, the natural rising and falling, the doubling and redoubling of her voice, might well be lifted above earth, and say, "Lord, what music hast Thou provided for the saints in heaven, when Thou affordest sinful man such music on earth!"

THE HAWTHORN.

AMONGST the many buds proclaiming May,
Decking the fields in holiday array,
Striving who shall surpass in bravery,

Mark the fair blooming of the hawthorn tree,
Who, finely clothed in a robe of white,
Feeds full the wanton eye with May's delight;
Yet for the bravery that she is in,

Doth neither handle card nor wheel to spin,
Nor changeth robes but twice, is never seen

In other colours than in white or green.

Learn then content, young shepherd, from this tree,
Whose greatest wealth is Nature's livery,

And richest ingots never toil to find,

Nor care for poverty, but of the mind.