Early violets, blue and white,
Dying for their love of light.
Almond blossom, sent to teach us

That the spring-days soon will reach us,
Lest, with longing over-tried,

We die as the violets died
Blossom, clouding all the tree
With thy crimson broidery,
Long before a leaf of green
O'er the bravest bough is seen;
Ah! when winter winds are swinging
All thy red bells into ringing,
With a bee in every bell,

Almond blossom, we greet thee well.

- EDWIN ARNOLD.

33.

THE FLY.

Busy, curious, thirsty fly,

Drink with me, and drink as I;
Freely welcome to my cup,
Couldst thou sip, and sip it up.
Make the most of life you may;
Life is short, and wears away.

Both alike are mine and thine,
Hastening quick to their decline;
Thine's a summer, mine's no more,
Though repeated to threescore;
Threescore summers, when they're gone,

Will appear as short as one.

- WILLIAM OLDYS.

34.

THE TIGER.

TIGER! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Fram'd thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burn'd the fervor of thine eyes?
On what wings dar'd he aspire –
What the hand dar'd seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
When thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand form'd thy dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain

Formed thy strength and forged thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dar'd thy deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And sprinkled heav'n with shining tears,
Did He smile, his work to see?

Did He who made the lamb make thee?

WILLIAM BLAKE.

35.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

As it fell upon the day

In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade

Which a grove of myrtles made,

Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring,
Everything did banish moan.

Save the nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean'd her breast against a thorn,
And there sung the dolefullest ditty
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;
Tereu, tereu, by and by :

That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
-Ah, thought I, thou mournst in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain:

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;
King Pandion, he is dead,

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:
All thy fellow birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing:
Even so, poor bird, like thee

None alive will pity me.

RICHARD BARNFIELD.

36.

TO A WATERFOWL.

WHITHER, midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,

As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast-
The desert and illimitable air-

Lone-wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end,

Soon shall thou find a summer home, and rest
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou art gone - the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

D

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

37.

THE CHOUGH AND CROW.

THE Chough and crow to roost are gone,
The owl sits on the tree,

The hush'd wind wails with feeble moan,
Like infant charity.

The wild fire dances on the fen,
The red star sheds its ray;
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men!
It is our opening day.

Both child and nurse are fast asleep,
And closed is every flower,
The winking tapers faintly peep
High from my lady's bower;
Bewildered hinds with shortened ken

Shrink in their murky way;
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men!

It is our opening day.

Nor board nor garner own we now,
Nor roof nor latched door,

Nor kind mate bound by holy vow

To bless a good man's store; Noon lulls us in a gloomy den, And night is grown our day; Uprouse ye, then, my merry men! It is our opening day.

— JOANNA BAILLIE.