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POEMS OF NATURE.

Wescription of Spring. The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings,

With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale ; The nightingale with feathers new she sings;

The turtle to her make hath told her tale. Summer is come, for every spray now springs;

The hart hath hung his old head on the pale, The buck in brake his winter coat he flings;

The fishes flete with new repaired scale; The adder all her slough away she flings;

The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale ; The busy bee her honey now she mings;

Winter is worn that was the flowres' bale. And thus I see among these pleasant things Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.

HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY.

Thou, if stormy Boreas throws
Down whole forests when he blows,
With a pregnant, flowery birth,
Canst refresh the teeming earth.
If he nip the early bud;
If he blast what's fair or good;
If he scatter our choice flowers;
If he shake our halls or bowers;
If his rude breath threaten us,
Thou canst stroke great Æolus,
And from him the grace obtain,
To bind him in an iron chain.

Thomas CAREW.

Return of Spring.
God shield ye, heralds of the spring,
Ye faithful swallows, fleet of wing,

Houps, cuckoos, nightingales,
Turtles, and every wilder bird,
That make your hundred chirpings heard

Through the green woods and dales.

The Airs of Spring. Sweetly breathing, vernal air, That with kind warmth doth repair Winter's ruins; from whose breast All the gums and spice of th' East Borrow their perfumes; whose eye Gilds the morn, and clears the sky; Whose dishevelled tresses shed Pearls upon the violet bed; On whose brow, with calm smiles drest, The halcyon sits and builds her nest ; Beauty, youth, and endless spring, Dwell upon thy rosy wing!

God shield ye, Easter daisies all,
Fair roses, buds, and blossoms small.

And he whom erst the gore
Of Ajax and Narciss did print,
Ye wild thyme, anise, balm, and mint,

I welcome ye once more.

God shield ye, bright, embroidered train Of butterflies, that on the plain,

Of each sweet herblet sip;
And ye, new swarms of bees, that go
Where the pink flowers and yellow grow,

To kiss them with your lip.
A hundred thousand times I call
A hearty welcome on ye all:

This season how I love,
This merry din on every shore,
For winds and storms, whose sullert roar
Forbade my steps to rove.

PIERRE RONSARD (French). Anonymous Translation,

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives

In yonder greening gleam, and fly

The happy birds, that change their sky To build and brood, that live their lives From land to land; and in my breast

Spring wakens too: and my regret

Becomes an April violet,
And buds and blossoms like the rest.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

Spring.
Dip down upon the northern shore,

O sweet new year, delaying long;

Thou doest expectant nature wrong, Delaying long; delay no more. What stays thee from the clouded noons,

Thy sweetness from its proper place

Can trouble live with April days, Or sadness in the summer moons ? Bring orchis, bring the fox-glove spire,

The little speedwell's darling blue,

Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew,
Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire.
O thou, new year, delaying long,

Delayest the sorrow in my blood,

That longs to burst a frozen bud, And flood a fresher throat with song.

When the Hounds of Spring. When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,

The mother of months in meadow or plain
Fills the shadows and windy places

With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain;
And the brown bright nightingale amorous.
Is half assuaged for Itylus,
For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces,

The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.
Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers,

Maiden most perfect, lady of light, With a noise of winds and many rivers,

With a clamor of waters, and with might; Bind on thy sandals, 0 thou most feet, Over the splendor and speed of thy feet ; For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers,

Round the feet of the day and the feet of thenight. Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her,

Fold our hands round her knees and cling? Oh that man's heart were as fire and could spring

to her, Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring! For the stars and the winds are unto her As raiment, as songs of the harp-player ; For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her,

And the south-west wind and the west wind sing. For winter's rains and ruins are over,

And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover,

The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover

Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

Now fades the last long streak of snow,

Now burgeons every maze of quick

About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow. Now rings the woodland loud and long,

The distance takes a lovelier hue,

And drowned in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song. Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,

The flocks are whiter down the vale,

And milkier every milky sail, On winding stream or distant sea ;

APRIL

Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

The full streams feed on flower of rushes,

Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot,
The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes

From leaf to flower and flower to fruit;
And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire,
And the oat is heard above the lyre,
And the hoofèd heel of a satyr crushes

The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.

April.

LESSONS sweet of Spring returning,

Welcome to the thoughtful heart ! May I call ye sense or learning,

Instinct pure, or heaven-taught art ! Be your title what it may, Sweet and lengthening April day, While with you the soul is free, Ranging wild o'er hill and lea;

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night,

Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid,
Follows with dancing and fills with delight

The Mænad and the Bassarid;
And soft as lips that laugh and hide,
The laughing leaves of the trees divide,
And screen from seeing and leave in sight

The god pursuing, the maiden hid.
The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair

Over her eyebrows shading her eyes; The wild vine slipping down leaves bare

Her bright breast shortening into sighs; The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, But the berried ivy catches and cleaves To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies..

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

Soft as Memnon's harp at morning,

To the inward ear devout,
Touched by light with heavenly warning,

Your transporting chords ring out.
Every leaf in every nook,
Every wave in every brook,
Chanting with a solemn voice,
Minds us of our better choice.

Needs no show of mountain hoary,

Winding shore or deepening glen, Where the landscape in its glory,

Teaches truth to wandering men. Give true hearts but earth and sky, And some flowers to bloom and die, Homely scenes and simple views Lowly thoughts may best infuse.

March.
The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,
The green field sleeps in the sun;

The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising ; There are forty feeding like one!

See the soft green willow springing

Where the waters gently pass, Every way her free arms flinging

O'er the moss and reedy grass ; Long ere winter blasts are fled, See her tipped with vernal red, And her kindly flower displayed Ere her leaf can cast a shade.

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;
The ploughboy is whooping-anon - anon

There's joy on the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;

Though the rudest hand assail her,

Patiently she droops awhile, But when showers and breezes hail her,

Wears again her winning smile.

Thus I learn contentment's power
From the slighted willow bower,
Ready to give thanks and live
"On the least that Heaven may give.
If, the quiet brooklet leaving,

Up the stormy vale I wind,
Haply half in fancy grieving

For the shades I leave behind,
By the dusty wayside dear,
Nightingales with joyous cheer
Sing, my sadness to reprove,
Gladlier than in cultured grove.
Where the thickest boughs are twining

Of the greenest, darkest tree,
There they plunge, the light declining -

All may hear, but none may see.
Fearless of the passing hoof,
Hardly will they fleet aloof;
So they live in modest ways,
Trust entire, and ceaseless praise.

JOHN KEBLE.

Song: On May Morning. Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

JOHN MILTON.

Spring.
Behold the young, the rosy Spring,
Gives to the breeze her scented wing,
While virgin graces, warm with May,
Fling roses o'er her dewy way.
The murmuring billows of the deep
Have languished into silent sleep;
And mark! the flitting sea-birds lave
Their plumes in the reflecting wave;
While cranes from hoary winter fly
To flutter in a kinder sky.
Now the genial star of day
Dissolves the murky clouds away,
And cultured field and winding stream
Are freshly glittering in his beam.

Now the earth prolific swells
With leafy buds and flowery bells;
Gemming shoots the olive twine;
Clusters bright festoon the vine;
All along the branches creeping,
Through the velvet foliage peeping,
Little infant fruits we see

Nursing into luxury.
Translation of THOMAS MOORE.

ANACREON.

Wrop of Wew. See how the orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn

Into the blowing roses,

(Yet careless of its mansion new For the clear region where 'twas born)

Round in itself incloses,

And in its little globe's extent Frames, as it can, its native element.

How it the purple flower does slight,

Scarce touching where it lies;
But gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light,

Like its own tear,
Because so long divided from the sphere;

Restless it rolls, and unsecure,

Trembling, lest it grow impure;

Till the warm sun pities its pain,
And to the skies exhales it back again.

So the soul, that drop, that ray,
Of the clear fountain of eternal day,
Could it within the human flower be seen,

Remembering still its former height,
Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green,

And, recollecting its own light,
Does, in its pure and cireling thoughts, ex-

press
The greater heaven in a heaven less.

In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away;.
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day.

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