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Dark beneath, but bright above;
Here disdaining, there in love.
It all about does upwards bend.
Let Zephyr only breathe,
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 !
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
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;
The winds that fan the flowers,
Tell of serener hours,
Beneath the sky of May.
From his blue throne of air,
Beauty is budding there ;
Their slumbers, and awake.
And the wide forest weaves,
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.
JAMES GATES PERCIVAL,
Summer Longings. Au! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May -
Scent the dewy way.
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 -
All the winter lay.
Sighing for the May.
Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing,
Throbbing for the May -
Glide the streams away.
Throbbing for the May.
Thou hast thy mighty herds,
Tame, and free livers;
In the deep rivers;
See, the lark quivers !
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:
Life still ebbs away;
DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY.
THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS.
Night is nigh gone.
Stars fade one by one;
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
A thousand as one;
The night is nigh gone.
The season excelling,
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
And plumed helmets on;
Say night is nigh gone.
I see the flags flowing,
The steeds rushing on;
ALEXANDER MONTGOMERY. Version of ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
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
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
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;
The blue deep thou wingest,
What thou art we know not;
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain ?
What fields, or waves, or mountains ?
What shapes of sky or plain ?
With thy clear, keen joyance
Languor cannot be;
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee;
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream; bower;
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not;
Our sincerest laughter
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;