TELL me, thou star, whose wings of light
Speed thee in thy fiery flight,
In what cavern of the night
Will thy pinions close now?
Tell me, moon, thou pale and gray
Pilgrim of heaven's homeless way,
In what depth of night or day
Seekest thou repose now?
Weary wind, who wanderest
Like the world's rejected guest,
Hast thou still some secret nest
On the tree or billow?
ART thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,-
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?
Thou chosen sister of the spirit,
That gazes on thee till in thee it pities. . . .
SUMMER is i-cumen in,
Lhude sing, cuccu;
Groweth sed, and bloweth med,
And springeth the wde nu.
Sing, cuccu, cuccu!
Awe bleteth after lamb,
Louth after calve cu,
Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth,
Murie sing, cuccu.
Well sings the cuccu,
Ne swik thou never nu.
Sing, cuccu, nu,
Sing, cuccu.
SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and May make country houses gay;
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
Spring! the sweet Spring!
FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.
What, were ye born to be,
An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave;
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, awhile, they glide
Into the grave.
THIS day, Dame Nature seem'd in love!
The lusty sap began to move;
Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines;
And birds had drawn their valentines.
Already were the eaves possess'd
With the swift pilgrim's daubèd nest;
The groves already did rejoice
In Philomel's triumphing voice;
The show'rs were short; the weather mild;
The morning fresh; the evening smil'd.
Joan takes her neat-rubbed pail, and now
She trips to milk the sand-red cow,
Where, for some sturdy foot-ball swain,
She strokes a syllabub or twain.
The fields and gardens were beset
With tulip, crocus, violet;
And now, though late, the modest rose
Did more than half a blush disclose.
Thus all looks gay and full of cheer,
To welcome the new-liveried year.
FAIR Daffadils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd his noon.
We have short time to stay, as you;
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or anything.
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew,
Ne'er to be found again.
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