And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red, Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tython's bed, Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; In larger locks than thou was wont before, 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. 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. A voice surpassing, far, Amphion's lyre, Spring. Now the lusty Spring is seen; BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. May. I FEEL a newer life in every gale; And with their welcome breathings fill the sail, Of hours that glide unfelt away The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls And where his whispering voice in music falls, The bright ones of the valley break The waving verdure rolls along the plain, To welcome back its playful mates again, 7 THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS. Night is nigh gone. HEY, now the day's dawning; The fields are o'erflowing A thousand as one; 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. Of war and fair women Say night is nigh gone. I see the flags flowing, And, snorting and blowing, The steeds rushing on; ALEXANDER MONTGOMERY. Version of ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Morning in London. EARTH has not anything to show more fair: In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill; The Sabbath Morning. WITH silent awe I hail the sacred morn, JOHN LEYDEN. 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, Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity. And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day, When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless, truant boy The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a hand; And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland; The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously; It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and welcome thee; And mark how with thine own thin locks-they now are silvery gray That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering, "Be gay!" mighty heart of joy! There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse,- a heart that sky, But hath its own winged mariners to give it mel ody; Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red gold; And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold. God bless them all, those little ones, who, far above this earth, Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth. But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound-from yonder wood it came! The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his 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 ern wind; Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again-his notes are void of art; But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart. Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought crazed wight like me, To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree! To suck once more in every breath their little souls away, |