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Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
Are there buds on our willow-tree?
Buds and birds on our trysting-tree ?

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!

Have you met the honey bee,
Circling upon rapid wing,

'Round the angler's trysting-tree?
Up, sweet thrushes, up and see !
Are there bees at our willow-tree?
Birds and bees at the trysting-tree

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!

Are the fountains gushing free?
Is the south wind wandering

Through the angler's trysting-tree?
Up, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
Is there wind up our willow-tree?
Wind or calm at our trysting-tree?

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing !

Wile us with a merry glee;
To the flowery haunts of spring-

To the angler's trysting-tree.
Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
Are there flowers 'neath our willow-tree?
Spring and flowers at the trysting-tree?



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,

Beauty is budding there.
The bright ones of the valley break
Their slumbers, and awake.

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.
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.



The Flock.

" days, has found warm admirers among the great poets of England. Akenside once remarked that he should regulate his opinion of the public taste by the reception of “ The Fleece ;" for if it were not to succeed," he should think it no longer reasonable to expect fame from excellence.” And Mr. Wordsworth appears to have been very much of the same opinion :

“ Bard of · The Fleece,' whose skillful genius made

That work a living landscape, fair and bright,

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Though party Fame hath many a chaplet culled
For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,
Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,
A grateful few shall love thy modest lay,
Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray
O’er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste-
Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill.”

Dyer is one of those writers whose higher efforts have been little heeded, while his lesser works have been much liked. Grongar Hill” and “ The Country Walk” have been always read with pleasure, while the “Ruins of Rome” and “ The Fleece" lie on the shelf unopened. The saucy critic, who on hearing, shortly after the publication of “The

Fleece,” that Dyer was growing old, exclaimed, “ He will be buried in woolen !" has proved at least a true seer.

The world never forgives a man of approved talent, who, having once fixed its attention agreeably, fails in some higher and later aim. The game of authorship is, in this sense, like many other games, where, if the last throw is a blank, you lose all that has been previously won from the pool of fame and fortune. The public has very little patience. But, on the other hand, we can not always adhere implicitly to the opinion of some wiser judge, though he be of the higher court, who


desire to revoke the earlier general decision. The literary man usually makes up his mind regarding a book upon very different grounds from the general reader; the public decides rapidly, from first impressions, from general views; it has neither time nor ability to waste on analysis; the critic delights in looking very closely at his subject, and his enjoyment of perfection of detail is often too great. The public is, no doubt, the best judge of the interest of a work, since it considers little else. The man of letters holds the best guage of talent; he appreciates more justly excellency of workmanship and accuracy of finish. But a really great book is not written for one class only—it should satisfy the best of all classes ; it must have more than one kind of merit -it must possess interest for the careless reader, skill and good workmanship for the critic, power and inspiration to strike the spark from kindred genius. There is quite a large class of poetical works especially, which, while they meet with more or less approbation from the critic, fail to please generally ; they lack interest; the writer has had talent enough to introduce much that is good, or, perhaps, even admirable passages, at intervals ; but he has not been endowed with the genius which grasps, and controls, and shapes, and vivifies every subject which it handles. Among this class may be placed “ The Fleece.” The writer, John Dyer, was a Welshman of respectable parentage, born in 1700, who first studied law, then became a painter, and finally took orders in the Church of England. The extract we have given from “ The Fleece” scarcely does justice to the merits of the poem, but we have selected it from its predictions regarding our own country; not only do Virginia and Massachusetts appear on the scene, but even California figures in these verses, written more than a hundred years ago.



Sleep, ye rude winds! Be every murmur dead
On yonder oak-crowned promontory's head!
Be still, ye bleating flocks—your shepherd calls.
Hang silent on your rocks, ye waterfalls !
Pan on his oaten pipe awakes the strains,
And fills with dulcet sounds the pastoral plains.
Lured by his notes, the nymphs their bowers forsake,
From every fountain, running stream, and lake,
From every hill and ancient grove around,
And to symphonious measures strike the ground.

Translation of J. H. MERIVALE.


There were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers ; meadows enameled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers; thickets which, being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep feeding with sober security, while the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dam's comfort; here a shepherd's boy piping, as though he should never be old; there a young shepherdess knitting, and withal singing, and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voicemusic.

Sir PHILIP SIDNEY. 1554-1586.

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