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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.


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 !


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 !


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;

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 leaves;

And from its darkening shadow floats A gush of trembling notes.

Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May;

The tresses of the woods With the light dallying of the west-wind play,

And the full-brimming floods, As gladly to their goal they run, Hail the returning sun.


Summer Longings. Au! my heart is weary waiting,

Waiting for the May -
Waiting for the pleasant rambles,
Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles,
With the woodbine alternating,

Scent the dewy way.
Ah! my heart is weary waiting,

Waiting for the May.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,

Longing for the May Longing to escape from study, To the young face fair and ruddy, And the thousand charms belonging

To the summer's day. Ah! my heart is sick with longing,

Longing for the May.

Song to Map. May, queen of blossoms,

And fulfilling flowers, With what pretty music

Shall we charm the hours ? Wilt thou have pipe and reed, Blown in the open mead ! Or to the lute give heed

In the green bowers ? Thou hast no need of us,

Or pipe or wire, That hast the golden bee

Ripened with fire; And many thousand more Songsters, that thee adore, Filling earth's grassy floor

With new desire.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,

Sighing for the May -
Sighing for their sure returning,
When the summer beams are burning,
Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying,

All the winter lay.
Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,

Sighing for the May.

Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing,

Throbbing for the May -
Throbbing for the sea-side billows,
Or the water-wooing willows;
Where in laughing and in sobbing,

Glide the streams away.
Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing,

Throbbing for the May.

Thou hast thy mighty herds,

Tame, and free livers;
Doubt not, thy music too

In the deep rivers;
And the whole plumy flight,
Warbling the day and night -
Up at the gates of light,

See, the lark quivers !
When with the jacinth

Coy fountains are tressed: And for the mournful bird

Greenwoods are dressed, That did for Tereus pine; Then shall our songs be thine, To whom our hearts incline: May, be thou blessed !


Waiting sad, dejected, weary,

Waiting for the May:
Spring goes by with wasted warnings-
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings-
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary

Life still ebbs away;
Man is ever weary, weary,
Waiting for the May!




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 !


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 !


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.


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;

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 hand;

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 ! But hath its own winged mariners to give it mel

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 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 SHAKESPEARE. 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,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.


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What thou art we know not;

What objects are the fountains
What is most like thee

Of thy happy strain ?
From rainbow-clouds there flow not

What fields, or waves, or mountains ?
Drops so bright to see,

What shapes of sky or plain ?
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of

Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,

With thy clear, keen joyance
Singing hymns unbidden,

Languor cannot be;
Till the world is wrought

Shadow of annoyance
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not;

Never came near thee;

Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Like a high-born maiden,
In a palace tower,

Waking or asleep,
Soothing her love-laden

Thou of death must deem
Soul in secret hour

Things more true and deep
With music sweet as love, which overflows her

Than we mortals dream; bower;

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ?
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;


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