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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 Thurlow.

THE QUEEN OF THE MAY.

HERE'S a bank with rich cowslips and cuckoo-buds

strewn,

To exalt your bright looks, gentle Queen of the May! Here's a cushion of moss for your delicate shoon,

And a woodbine to weave you a canopy gay.

Here's a garland of red maiden-roses for you—
Such a delicate wreath is for beauty alone;
Here's a golden king-cup, brimming over with dew,
To be kissed by a lip just as sweet as its own.

Here are bracelets of pearl from the fount in the dale, That the nymph of the wave on your wrists doth bestow;

Here's a lily-wrought scarf your sweet blushes to hide, Or to lie on that bosom, like snow upon snow.

Here's a myrtle enwreathed with a jessamine band,
To express the fond twining of beauty and youth;
Take this emblem of love in thy exquisite hand,

And do thou sway the evergreen sceptre of Truth.

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SONG.

Then around you we'll dance, and around you we'll sing

23

To soft pipe and sweet tabor we'll foot it away; And the hills, and the dales, and the forests shall ring, While we hail you our lovely young Queen of the May. George Darley.

SONG.

PACK clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow:
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft,

To give my love good-morrow.

Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow:
Bird, prune thy wing; nightingale, sing,
To give my love good-morrow.
To give my love good-morrow,
Notes from them all I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast,
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each hill let music shrill

Give my fair love good-morrow.
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow.
To give my love good-morrow,
Sing, birds, in every furrow.

Thomas Heywood.

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

The spot which seems so to thy mind!

I have walked through wildernesses dreary, And to-day my heart is weary;

Had I now the wings of a Faery,

Up to thee would I fly.

There is madness about thee, and joy divine
In that song of thine;

Lift me, guide me, high and high,
To thy banqueting-place in the sky.

Joyous as morning,

Thou art laughing and scorning:
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,
And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken lark! thou wouldst be loath
To be such a traveller as I.

Happy, happy Liver,

With a soul as strong as a mountain river, Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, Joy and jollity be with us both!

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