41

THE QUESTION.

The constellated flower that never sets;

Faint oxlips; tender blue bells, at whose birth
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets
Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears,
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge there grew lush eglantine,
Green cow-bind, and the moonlight-coloured May,
And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
Was the bright dew not drained yet by the day;
And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,

With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;
And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold,
Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.

And nearer to the river's trembling edge

There grew broad flag-flowers, purple, prankt with white.
And starry river-buds among the sedge,

And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,

Which lit the oak, that overhung the hedge,

With moonlight beams of their own watery light;

And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green

As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

Methought that of these visionary flowers

I made a nosegay, bound in such a way

That the same hues, which in their natural bowers
Were mingled or opposed, the like array
Kept these imprisoned children of the hours
Within my hand; and then, elate and gay,

I hastened to the spot whence I had come,
That I might there present it !-Oh! to whom?

SHELLEY.

46

THE POOR MAN'S MAY.

THE POOR MAN'S MAY.

WEET May! they tell me thou art come:

Thou art not come to me;

I cannot spare a single hour,

Sweet May! to welcome thee.

God knows how hard I've worked this week,

To earn my children bread;

And, see, we have an empty board,—

My children are unfed.

And art thou still the same sweet May
My childhood loved so well,
When, humming like a happy bee
Along some primrose dell,

I thought, oh! what a lovely world.
Is this, dear God has given,
And wondered any one should seek

For any other heaven?

The hawthorn buds are come again,

And apple blossoms too;

And all the idle, happy birds

May sing the long day through.

The old green lane awakes once more,
And looks, perhaps, for me;

Alas! green lane, my heart may die

I cannot come to thee!

JOHN SAUNDers.

46

THE POOR MAN'S MAY.

THE POOR MAN'S MAY.

WEET May! they tell me thou art come :

Thou art not come to me;

I cannot spare a single hour,

Sweet May! to welcome thee.

God knows how hard I've worked this week,

To earn my children bread;

And, see, we have an empty board,—

My children are unfed.

And art thou still the same sweet May

My childhood loved so well,
When, humming like a happy bee
Along some primrose dell,

I thought, oh! what a lovely world
Is this, dear God has given,
And wondered any one should seek

For any other heaven?

The hawthorn buds are come again,

And apple-blossoms too;

And all the idle, happy birds

May sing the long day through.

The old green lane awakes once more,
And looks, perhaps, for me;

Alas! green lane, my heart may die—

I cannot come to thee!

JOHN SAUNDers.