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And paint the sable skies

With azure, white, and red,

Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tython's bed,
That she thy career may with roses spread,
The nightingales thy coming each where sing
Make an eternal spring.

Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
Spread forth thy golden hair

In larger locks than thou was wont before,
And, emperor-like, decore

With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:

Chase hence the ugly night,

Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.

This is that happy morn,

That day, long-wished day,

Of all my life so dark,

(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn, And fates my hopes betray,)

Which, purely white, deserves

An everlasting diamond should it mark.

This is the morn should bring unto this grove

My love, to hear, and recompense my love.
Fair king, who all preserves,

But show thy blushing beams,

And thou two sweeter eyes

Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams Did once thy heart surprise:

Nay, suns, which shine as clear

As thou when two thou didst to Rome appear.
Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise.
If that ye winds would hear

A voice surpassing, far, Amphion's lyre,
Your furious chiding stay;

Spring.

Now the lusty Spring is seen;
Golden yellow, gaudy blue,
Daintily invite the view.
Everywhere, on every green,
Roses blushing as they blow,
And enticing men to pull;
Lilies whiter than the snow;
Woodbines of sweet honey full—
All love's emblems, and all cry:
Ladies, if not plucked, we die!

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

May.

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;

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THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS.

Night is nigh gone.

HEY, now the day's dawning;
The jolly cock's crowing;
The eastern sky's glowing;
Stars fade one by one;
The thistle-cock's crying
On lovers long lying,
Cease vowing and sighing;
The night is nigh gone.

The fields are o'erflowing
With gowans all glowing,
And white lilies growing,

A thousand as one;
The sweet ring-dove cooing,
His love notes renewing,
Now moaning, now suing;
The night is nigh gone.

The season excelling,
In scented flowers smelling,
To kind love compelling

Our hearts every one; With sweet ballads moving The maids we are loving, Mid musing and roving

The night is nigh gone.

Of war and fair women
The young knights are dreaming,
With bright breastplates gleaming,
And plumed helmets on;
The barbed steed neighs lordly,
And shakes his mane proudly,
For war-trumpets loudly

Say night is nigh gone.

I see the flags flowing,
The warriors all glowing,

And, snorting and blowing,

The steeds rushing on;
The lances are crashing,
Out broad blades come flashing
Mid shouting and dashing;
The night is nigh gone.

ALEXANDER MONTGOMERY.

Version of ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Morning in London.

EARTH has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This city now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep,

In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will;
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

The Sabbath Morning.

WITH silent awe I hail the sacred morn,
That slowly wakes while all the fields are still.
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne;
A graver murmur gurgles from the rill;
And echo answers softer from the hill;
And softer sings the linnet from the thorn:
The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill.
Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn!
The rooks float silent by in airy drove;
The sun a placid yellow luster throws;
The gales that lately sighed along the grove,
Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose;
The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move.
So smiled the day when the first morn arose !

JOHN LEYDEN.

The Merry Summer Months.

THEY Come! the merry summer months of beauty, song, and flowers;

They come the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers.

Up, up, my heart! and walk abroad; fling cark and care aside;

Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide;

Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree, Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity.

And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day,

When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless, truant boy

The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a hand;

And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is

sweet and bland;

The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously;

It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and welcome thee;

And mark how with thine own thin locks-they now are silvery gray

That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering, "Be gay!"

mighty heart of joy!

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There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse,- a heart that sky,

But hath its own winged mariners to give it mel

ody;

Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all

gleaming like red gold;

And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry

course they hold.

God bless them all, those little ones, who, far above this earth,

Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth.

But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound-from yonder wood it came!

The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name.

Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that, apart from all his kind,

Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft west

ern wind;

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again-his notes are void of art;

But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart.

Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought

crazed wight like me,

To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree!

To suck once more in every breath their little souls

away,

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Among the flowers and grass which screen it from Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest

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