Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost
Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream
Upon the silver lake, or crystal stream;
But the warm sun thaws the benumbèd earth,
And makes it tender; gives a second birth
To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree
The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble bee.
Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring
In triumph to the world the youthful Spring:
The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array,
Welcome the coming of the long'd-for May.
The swallow, for a moment seen,
Skims in haste the village green;
From the grey moor, on feeble wing,
The screaming plovers idly spring.
Fraught with a transient frozen shower
If a cloud should haply lour,
Sailing o'er the landscape dark,
Mute on a sudden is the lark;
But when gleams the sun again,
O'er the pearl-besprinkled plain,
And from behind his watery veil
Looks through the thin-descending hail;
She mounts, and, lessening to the sight,
Salutes the blithe return of light,
And high her tuneful track pursues
'Mid the dim rainbow's scatter'd hues.
Now Nature hangs her mantle green
every blooming tree,
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea.
And lav'rocks wake the merry more,
Aloft on dewy wing;
The merle, in his noontide bower,
Makes woodland echoes ring
The mavis wild, with many a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest;
In love and freedom they rejoice,
With care nor thrall opprest.
Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae ;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae.
I COME, I come! ye have call'd me long—
I come o'er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.
I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers,
By thousands, have burst from the forest-bowers,
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains ;—
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb!
I have look'd on the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the reindeer bounds through the pasture free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been.
I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep-blue sky;
From the night-bird's lay through the starry-time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.
From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain,
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain brows,
They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves !
Lines written in Early Spring.
I HEARD a thousand blended notes
While in a grove I sat reclin'd,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopp'd and play'd,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:-
But the least motion which they made,
It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
Home thoughts from Abroad,
Он, to be in England,
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf;
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows-
Hark! where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge
Leaves to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops-at the bent spray's edge-
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower,
Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
THEN came fair May, the fairest maid on ground,
Deck'd all with dainties of her season's pride,
And throwing flowers out of her lap around:
Upon two brethren's shoulders she did ride,
The Twins of Leda, which, on either side,
Supported her like to their sovereign queen.
Lord! how all creatures laugh'd when her they spied,
And leap'd and danced as they had ravish'd been ;
And Cupid's self about her flutter'd all in green.
Song-on May Morning.
Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail bounteous May! that dost inspire
Mirth and youth, and warm desire;
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
SWALLOW, Swallow, hither wing,
Hither, swallow, bringing spring;
From the lake hath gone the teal,
Fled the widgeon from the stream,
Now no more our bursting woods
Hear the swooping merlin's scream;
Come, thou dawn of summer, come,
Hither leaves and shadows bringing,
Bladed furrows-nested eaves,-
Sweetest songs the South is singing;
Bringing violets-bringing spring,
Hither, swallow, hither wing.
Swallow, swallow, hither wing,
Dearest playmate of the spring ;
Come-the celandine no more
Dreads the gusty wrath of March,—
Golden tassell'd is the birch,-
Emerald fringes hath the larch ;-
Come, thou news of summer, come,
Trills and hedge-row twitterings bringing,
Quivering mountings of the lark,-
Shrillest songs the ousel's singing;
Snowing orchards, flight of spring,
Hither, swallow, hither wing.
SWEET is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun,
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glistering with dew; fragrant the earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful Evening mild: then silent Night,
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train.
MILTON.
|