Across the window-pane
It pours and pours;
And swift and wide

With the muddy tide,

Like a river down the gutter, roars

The rain, the welcome rain!

The sick man from his chamber looks

At the twisted brooks;

He can feel the cool

Breath of each little pool;

His fevered brain

Grows calm again,

And he breathes a blessing on the rain.

From the neighbouring school

Come the boys,

With more than their wonted noise

And commotion;

And down the wet streets

Sail their mimic fleets,

Till the treacherous pool

Engulfs them in its whirling
And turbulent ocean.

In the country, on every side,

Where far and wide,

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide,

Stretches the plain,

To the dry grass and drier grain

How welcome is the rain!

In the furrowed land

The toilsome and patient oxen stand;

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head,

With their dilated nostrils spread

They silently inhale

The clover-scented gale,

And the vapours that arise

From the well-watered and smoking soil.

For this rest in the furrow after toil

Their large and lustrous eyes

Seem to thank the Lord,

More than man's spoken word.

Near at hand,

From under the sheltering trees,

The farmer sees

His pastures and his fields of grain,
As they bend their tops

To the numberless beating drops
Of the incessant rain.

He counts it as no sin

That he sees therein

Only his own thrift and gain.

These, and far more than these,
The poet sees!
He can behold

Aquarius1 old

Walking the fenceless fields of air;
And from each ample fold

Of the clouds about him rolled
Scattering everywhere

The showery rain,

As the farmer scatters his grain.

He can behold

Things manifold

That have not yet been wholly told,—
Have not been wholly sung nor said.
For his thought that never stops,

Follows the water-drops,

Down to the graves of the dead,

Down through chasms and gulfs profound

To the dreary fountain-head

Of lakes and rivers underground;

And sees them, when the rain is done,

On the bridge of colours seven

Climbing up once more to heaven,

Opposite the setting sun.

Thus the Seer

With vision clear,

Sees forms appear and disappear,
In the perpetual round of strange,
Mysterious change

The water-bearer, one of the twelve signs in the zodiac, the track of the sun.

From birth to death, from death to birth,
From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth,
Till glimpses more sublime

Of things, unseen before,

Unto his wondering eyes reveal

The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel
Turning for evermore

In the rapid and rushing river of Time.

6.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

To a Skylark.

UP with me! up with me into the clouds!
For thy song, lark, is strong;

Up with me, up with me into the clouds!
Singing, singing,

With clouds and sky about thee ringing,
Lift me, guide me till I find

That spot which seems so to thy mind!

Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,
Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind;
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,
As full of gladness and as free of heaven,

I, with any fate contented, will plod on,

And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done.

7.

W. WORDSWORTH.

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 looked 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 rein-deer bounds o'er the pastures free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,

And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been.
I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing 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.

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-lip 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 grove and glen!
Away from the chamber and sullen 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.

8.

To the Cuckoo.

F. HEMANS.

NOT the whole warbling grove in concert heard
When sunshine follows shower, the breast can thrill
Like the first summons, Cuckoo! of thy bill,
With its twin notes inseparably paired.

The captive, 'mid damp vaults unsunned, unaired,

Hesperia was a name given to Italy by the Greeks. It is derived from Hesper or Vesper, the evening or setting sun.

Measuring the periods of his lonely doom,
That cry can reach; and to the sick man's room
Sends gladness, by no languid smile declared.
The lordly eagle-race through hostile search
May perish; time may come when never more
The wilderness shall hear the lion roar ;
But, long as cock shall crow from household perch
To rouse the dawn, soft gales shall speed thy wing,
And thy erratic voice be faithful to the spring!
W. WORDSWORTH.

9.

Written in March.

THE Cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest ;
The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army

defeated

The snow hath retreated,

And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The plough-boy is whooping--anon--anon :
There's joy in the mountains;

There's life in the fountains;

Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!

W. WORDSWORTH.

10.

To the Cuckoo.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!

Thou messenger of spring!

Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,

And woods thy welcome sing.