MAY. My love, to hear, and recompense my love. And thou two sweeter eyes Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams As thou when two thou didst to Rome appear. If that ye winds would hear A voice surpassing, far, Amphion's lyre, Let Zephyr only breathe, And with her tresses play, Kissing sometimes those purple ports of death. Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels. The fields with flowers are decked in every hue, The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue: Here is the pleasant place, And nothing wanting is, save she, alas! MAY. WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 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 Beneath the sky of May. The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls From his blue throne of air, And where his whispering voice in music falls, The bright ones of the valley break The waving verdure rolls along the plain, And the wide forest weaves, To welcome back its playful mates again, A canopy of leaves; And from its darkening shadow floats A gush of trembling notes. 15 Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May; The tresses of the woods With the light dallying of the west-wind play; And the full-brimming floods, As gladly to their goal they run, Hail the returning sun. JAMES GATES PERCIVAL SONG TO MAY. MAY! queen of blossoms, And fulfilling flowers, With what pretty music Shall we charm the hours? Wilt thou have pipe and reed, Blown in the open mead? Or to the lute give heed In the green bowers? Thou hast no need of us, Or pipe or wire, That hast the golden bee Ripened with fire; And many thousand more Songsters, that thee adore, Filling earth's grassy floor With new desire. Thou hast thy mighty herds, Tame, and free livers; Doubt not, thy music too In the deep rivers; And the whole plumy flight, Warbling the day and nightUp at the gates of light, See, the lark quivers! When with the jacinth Coy fountains are tressed; And for the mournful bird Greenwoods are dressed, That did for Tereus pine; Then shall our songs be thine, To whom our hearts incline: May, be thou blessed! LORD THUELOW Of war and fair women EARLY SUMMER. The young knights are dreaming, I see the flags flowing, The steeds rushing on; The lances are crashing, Mid shouting and dashing- ALEXANDER MONTGOMERY. MORNING IN LONDON. EARTH has not anything to show more fair: This city now doth, like a garment, wear Open unto the fields, and to the sky, 17 THEY COME! THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS. THEY Come! the merry summer months of beauty, song, and flowers; They come! the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers. Up, up, my heart! and walk abroad; fling cark and care aside; Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peace ful waters glide; Or, underneath the shadow vast of patri archal tree, Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquility. The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the hand; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze God bless them all, those little ones, who, far And winking Mary-buds begin Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent With every thing that pretty bin, But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound,—from yonder wood it came! The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name;— Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that, apart from all his kind, Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western wind; Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again,—his notes are void of art; My lady sweet, arise; SHAKESPEARE. TO THE SKYLARK. HAIL to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert, But simplest strains do soonest sound the In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Wandered through greenwoods all day long, Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun. a mighty heart of joy! I'm sadder now-I have had cause; but O! That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm, unclouded sky, Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days gone by. When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold, The pale, purple even Melts around thy flight; In the broad daylight, Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse,—a heart Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. that hath waxed old! |