II.

A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound: Then-all at once the air was still,

And showers of hailstones pattered round. Where leafless Oaks towered high above,

I sat within an undergrove

Of tallest hollies, tall and green;
A fairer bower was never seen.
From year to year the spacious floor
With withered leaves is covered o'er,
You could not lay a hair between :
And all the year the bower is green.
But see! where'er the hailstones drop
The withered leaves all skip and hop,
There's not a breeze-no breath of air→
Yet here, and there, and every where

Along the floor, beneath the shade
By those embowering hollies made,
The leaves in myriads jump and spring,
As if with pipes and music rare

Some Robin Good-fellow were there,
And all those leaves in festive glee

Were dancing to the minstrelsy.

VOL. I.

R

III.

"WITH how sad steps, O Moon thou climb'st the sky, How silently, and with how wan a face*!”

Where art thou? Thou whom I have seen on high
Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race!
Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh
Which they would stifle, move at such a pace!
The Northern Wind, to call thee to the chase,
Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I
The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be:
And all the Stars, now shrouded up in heaven,

Should sally forth to keep thee company.

What strife would then be yours, fair Creatures, driven
Now up, now down, and sparkling in your glee!
But, Cynthia, should to Thee the palm be given,
Queen both for beauty and for majesty.

* From a sonnet of Sir Philip Sydney.

IV.

THE GREEN LINNET.

BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head,

With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather,

In this sequestered nook how sweet

To sit upon my Orchard-seat!

And Flowers and Birds once more to greet, My last year's Friends together.

One have I marked, the happiest Guest

In all this covert of the blest:

Hail to Thee, far above the rest

In joy of voice and pinion,

Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,

Presiding Spirit here to-day,

Dost lead the revels of the May,

And this is thy dominion.

While Birds, and Butterflies, and Flowers Make all one Band of Paramours,

Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, Art sole in thy employment;

A Life, a Presence like the Air,

Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too bless'd with any one to pair,

Thyself thy own enjoyment.

Upon yon tuft of hazel trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,

Behold him perched in ecstasies,

Yet seeming still to hover;

There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings

Shadows and sunny glimmerings,

That cover him all over.

While thus before my eyes he gleams,
A Brother of the Leaves he seems;

When in a moment forth he teems

His little song in gushes:

As if it pleased him to disdain

And mock the Form which he did feign,

While he was dancing with the train

Of Leaves among the bushes.