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MAY.

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Dark beneath, but bright above;

Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go!
How girt and ready to ascend !
Moving but on a point below,

It all about does upwards bend.
Such did the manna's sacred dew distil,
White and entire, although congealed and chill —
Congealed on earth, but does dissolving run
Into the glories of the Almighty sun.

ANDREW MARVELL.

Let Zephyr only breathe,
And with her tresses play,
Kissing sometimes those purple ports of death.
The winds all silent are,
And Phæbus in his chair
Ensaffroning sea and air,
Makes vanish every star :
Night like a drunkard reels
Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels.
The fields with flowers are decked in every hue,
The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue:
Here is the pleasant place,
And nothing wanting is, save she, alas !

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

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.

Song. PHEBUS, arise, And paint the sable skies With ažure, 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;

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 leares;

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THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS.

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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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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;

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hand;

Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree, And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt bright summer day, tranquillity.

When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reck

less, truant boy The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a

mighty heart of joy! And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland;

I'm sadder now - I have had cause; but O! I'm The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courte- proud to think ously;

That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet deIt stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and light to drink;welcome thee;

Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm, And mark how with thine own thin locks — they unclouded sky, now are silvery gray —

Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering,

gone by. “ Be gay!”

When summer's loveliness and light fall round

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

hath waxed old !

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. But hath its own winged mariners to give it mel

ody; Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red gold;

Morning. And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold.

HARK—hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, God bless them all, those little ones, who, far above

And Phæbus 'gins arise, this earth,

His steeds to water at those springs Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a no

On chaliced flowers that lies: bler mirth.

And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes; But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound — from yon- With every thing that pretty bin, der wood it came!

My lady sweet, arise, The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his

Arise, arise!

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARL. 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

To the Skylark. ern wind; Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again — his notes are

Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! void of art;

Bird thou never wert, But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep

That from heaven, or near it, founts of the heart.

Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for thoughtcrazed wight like me,

Higher still and higher To smell again these summer flowers beneath this

From the earth thou springest, summer tree!

Like a cloud of fire; To suck once more in every breath their little souls

The blue deep thou wingest, away,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

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Like a glow-worm golden,

We look before and after,
In a dell of dew,

And pine for what is not;
Scattering unbeholden

Our sincerest laughter
Its aërial hue

With some pain is fraught; Among the flowers and grass which screen it from Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest the view;

thought.

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