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DIE DOWN, O DISMAL DAY! DIE down, O dismal day, and let me live ; And come, blue deeps, magnificently strewn With colored clouds,-large, light, and fugitive,By upper winds through pompous motions blown. Now it is death in life, -a vapor dense Creeps round my window, till I cannot see The far snow-shining mountains, and the glens Shagging the mountain tops. O God! make free This barren shackled earth, so deadly cold, Breathe gently forth thy spring, till winter flies In rude amazement, fearful and yet bold, While she performs her customed charities; I weigh the loaded hours till life is bare, O God, for one clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air!

DAVID GRAY

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Ah my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May,
Sighing for their sure returning,
When the summer beams are burning,
Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying,
All the winter lay.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May.

Waiting sad, dejected, weary,
Waiting for the May:
Spring goes by with wasted warnings,
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings,
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary
Life still ebbs away;
Man is ever weary, weary,
Waiting for the May!

DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY.

For winter's rains and ruins are over,

And all the season of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,

The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,

Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing, And in green underwood and cover
Throbbing for the May,
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
Throbbing for the seaside billows,
Or the water-wooing willows;

Where, in laughing and in sobbing,
Glide the streams away.

Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing.
Throbbing for the May.

WHEN THE HOUNDS OF SPRING. WHEN the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places

With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; And the brown bright nightingale amorous Is half assuaged for Itylus,

For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces;
The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.

Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers,

Maiden most perfect, lady of light,

With a noise of winds and many rivers,
With a clamor of waters, and with might;
Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet,
Over the splendor and speed of thy feet!
For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers,
Round the feet of the day and the feet of the
night.

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her,
Fold our hands round her knees and cling?
O that man's heart were as fire and could spring
to her,

Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring!
For the stars and the winds are unto her
As raiment, as songs of the harp-player;
For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her,
And the southwest-wind and the west-wind
sing.

The full streams feed on flower of rushes,

Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot,
The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes
From leaf to flower and flower to fruit;
And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire,
And the oat is heard above the lyre,
And the hooféd heel of a satyr crushes

The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night,

Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid,
Follows with dancing and fills with delight
The Mænad and the Bassarid;
And soft as lips that laugh and hide,
The laughing leaves of the trees divide,
And screen from seeing and leave in sight
The god pursuing, the maiden hid.

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair

Over her eyebrows shading her eyes;
The wild vine slipping down leaves bare

Her bright breast shortening into sighs;
The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves,
But the berried ivy catches and cleaves
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare
The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

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To the high hill's top;

Tax not the strength of their young hands

To increase your lands.

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Pluck the violets blue,

Ah, pluck not a few!

Knowest thou what good thoughts from Heaven

the violet instils?

See, the birds together,

In this splendid weather,

Worship God (for he is God of birds as well as

men);

Ah, come and woo the spring;

anon! List to the birds that sing;

And each feathered neighbor

Enters on his labor,

Sparrow, robin, redpole, finch, the linnet, and the

wren.

As the year advances,

Trees their naked branches

Clothe, and seek your pleasure in their green apparel.

Insect and wild beast

Keep no Lent, but feast;

Spring breathes upon the earth, and their joy 's increased,

And the rejoicing birds break forth in one loud carol.

Pluck the primroses; pluck the violets;
Pluck the daisies,

Sing their praises;

Friendship with the flowers some noble thought
begets.

Come forth and gather these sweet elves,
(More witching are they than the fays of old,)
Come forth and gather them yourselves;
Learn of these gentle flowers whose worth is more
than gold.

Come, come into the wood;
Pierce into the bowers

Of these gentle flowers,
Which, not in solitude

Dwell, but with each other keep society:

Gather the primroses,

Make handfuls into posies;

Take them to the little girls who are at work in Or, upon summer earth,

mills:

To die, in virgin worth;

Or to be strewn before the bride,

And the bridegroom, by her side.

And with a simple piety,

Are ready to be woven into garlands for the good.

Come forth on Sundays;
Come forth on Mondays;
Come forth on any day;
Children, come forth to play :-

Give the children holidays,

:

(And let these be jolly days,)

Grant freedom to the children in this joyous Worship the God of Nature in your childhood; Worship him at your tasks with best endeavor; Worship him in your sports; worship him ever;

spring; Better men, hereafter,

Worship him in the wildwood;
Worship him amidst the flowers;
In the greenwood bowers;
Pluck the buttercups, and raise
Your voices in his praise !

EDWARD YOUL.

SPRING.

AGAIN the violet of our early days
Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun,
And kindles into fragrance at his blaze;
The streams, rejoiced that winter's work is done,
Talk of to-morrow's cowslips, as they run.
Wild apple, thou art blushing into bloom!
Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossomed thorn!
Wake, buried lily! spirit, quit thy tomb!
And thou shade-loving hyacinth, be born!
Then, haste, sweet rose ! sweet woodbine, hymn
the morn,

SPRING.

Whose dewdrops shall illume with pearly light
Each grassy blade that thick embattled stands
From sea to sea, while daisies infinite
Uplift in praise their little glowing hands,
O'er every hill that under heaven expands.

EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
The untaught harmony of spring :
While, whispering pleasure as they fly,
Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky
Their gathered fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade,
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
O'er-canopies the glade,

Beside some water's rushy brink
With me the Muse,shall sit, and think
(At ease reclined in rustic state)
How vain the ardor of the crowd,
How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great!

Still is the toiling hand of care;
The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how through the peopled air

The busy murmur glows!

The insect youth are on the wing,

Eager to taste the honeyed spring And float amid the liquid noon : Some lightly o'er the current skim, Some show their gayly gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of man;

And they that creep, and they that fly
Shall end where they began.

Alike the busy and the gay

But flutter through life's little day,
In Fortune's varying colors drest :
Brushed by the hand of rough mischance
Or chilled by age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear in accents low
The sportive kind reply:
Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!

Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display ;
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone,
We frolic while 't is May.

THOMAS GRAY.

SWEETLY BREATHING, VERNAL AIR.

SWEETLY breathing, vernal air,
That with kind warmth doth repair
Winter's ruins; from whose breast
All the gums and spice of the East
Borrow their perfumes; whose eye
Gilds the morn, and clears the sky;
Whose dishevelled tresses shed
Pearls upon the violet bed;
On whose brow, with calm smiles drest
The halcyon sits and builds her nest;
Beauty, youth, and endless spring
Dwell upon thy rosy wing!

Thou, if stormy Boreas throws
Down whole forests when he blows,
With a pregnant, flowery birth,
Canst refresh the teeming earth.
If he nip the early bud,
If he blast what's fair or good,
If he scatter our choice flowers,
If he shake our halls or bowers,
If his rude breath threaten us,
Thou canst stroke great Æolus,
And from him the grace obtain,
To bind him in an iron chain.

THOMAS CAREW.

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