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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;
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!



Max! 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.


I FEEL a newer life in every gale;

The winds, that fan the flowers,
And with their welcome breathings fill the

Tell of serener hours,-
Of hours that glide unfelt away
Beneath the sky of 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 nightUp at the gates of light,

See, the lark quivers !

The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls

From his blue throne of air,
And where his whispering voice in music falls,

Beauty is budditg there;
The bright ones of the valley break
Their slumbers, and awake.

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 !


The waving verdure rolls along the plain,

And the wide forest weaves, To welcome back its playful mates again,

A canopy of leaves;

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about 1250.

Of war and fair women

Ewe bleateth after lamb;
The young knights are dreaming,

Loweth calf after cow;
With bright breastplates gleaming,

Bullock starteth, buck departeth;
And plumed helmets on;

Merry sing, cuckoo;
The barbed steed neighs lordly,

Cuckoo, cuckoo;
And shakes his mane proudly,

Well singeth the cuckoo-
For war-trumpets loudly

Sing ever, stop never,
Say night is nigh gone.

Cuckoo, cuckoo;

Sing, cuckoo!
I see the flags flowing,

Modern Version.

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.

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 MORNING IN LONDON.

cark and care aside;

Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peace Earth has not anything to show more fair:

ful waters glide ; Dull would he be of soul who could pass by Or, underneath the shadow vast of patri A sight so touching in its majesty:

archal tree, This city now doth, like a garment, wear Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

rapt tranquility. Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful Open unto the fields, and to the sky,

to the hand; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze Never did sun more beautifully steep,

is sweet and bland; In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill; The daisy and the buttercup are nodding Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

courteously ; The river glideth at his own sweet will; It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;

and welcome thee: And all that mighty heart is lying still! And mark how with thine own thin locksWILLIAM WORDS WORTH.

they now are silvery grayThat blissful breeze is wantoning, and whis

pering, “Be gay!”


Summer is a coming in,

Loud sing, cuckoo;
Groweth seed, and bloweth mead,
And springeth the wood new.
Sing, cuckoo, cuckoo!

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean

of yon sky, But hath its own winged mariners to give it

melody : 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 And winking Mary-buds begin above this earth,

To ope their golden eyes; Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent With every thing that pretty bin, a nobler mirth.

My lady sweet, arise ;

Arise, arise ! 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

TO THE SKYLARK. from all his kind, Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! western wind;

Bird thou never wert, Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again,—his notes That from heaven, or near it, are void of art;

Pourest thy full heart But simplest strains do soonest sound the In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. deep founts of the heart.

Higher still and higher, Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought

From the earth thou springest, crazed wight like me,

Like a cloud of fire ; To smell again these summer flowers beneath

The blue deep thou wingest, this summer tree!

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever To suck once more in every breath their lit

singest. tle souls away, And feed my fancy with fond dreams of

In the golden lightning youth's bright summer day,

Of the setting sun, When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the

O'er which clouds are brightening, reckless, truant boy

Thou dost float and run; Wandered through greenwoods all day long, Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun. a mighty heart of joy!

The pale, purple even I'm sadder now-I have had cause; but O!

Melts around thy flight; I 'm proud to think

Like a star of heaven, That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet

In the broad daylight, delight to drink ;Leaf, blossom, blade, hill , valley, stream, the Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill

delight. calm, unclouded sky, Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the

Keen as are the arrows days gone by.

Of that silver sphere, When summer's loveliness and light fall round

Whose intense lamp narrows me dark and cold,

In the white dawn clear, I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse, –a heart Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. that hath waxed old ! WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,

As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud

The moon rains out her beams, and heaven Hark—hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

is overflowed. And Phæbus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs

What thou art we know not; On chaliced flowers that lies;

What is most like thee?.

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From rainbow-clouds there flow not

What objects are the fountains
Drops so bright to see,

Of thy happy strain ? As from thy presence showers a rain of What fields, or waves, or mountains ? melody.

What shapes of sky or plain?

What love of thine own kind? what ignor-
Like a poet hidden

ance of pain ?
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,

With thy clear, keen joyance
Till the world is wrought

Languor cannot be:
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded

Shades of annoyance not:

Never come 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
With music sweet as love, which overflows

Things more true and deep

Than we mortals dream; her bower:

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crys-
Like a glow-worm golden,

tal stream?
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden

We look before and after,
Its aërial hue

And pine for what is not:
Among the flowers and grass which screen it

Our sincerest laughter from the view :

With some pain is fraught;

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of sad-
Like a rose embowered

dest thought.
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,

Yet if we could scorn
Till the scent it gives

Hate, and pride, and fear; Makes faint with too much sweet these If we were things born heavy-wing'd thieves.

Not to shed a tear,

I know not how thy joy we ever should come
Sound of vernal showers

On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,

Better than all measures
All that ever was

Of delightful sound; Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth Better than all treasures surpass.

That in books are found,

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the
Teach no sprite or bird

ground !
What sweet thoughts are thine :
I have never heard

Teach me half the gladness
Praise of love or wine

That thy brain must know,
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Such harmonious madness

From my lips would flow,
Chorus hymeneal,

The world should listen then, as I am listen-
Or triumphant chant,

ing now. Matched with thine would be all

PERCY BYSSUE SHELLEY, But an empty vauntÀ thing wherein we feel there is some hid

den want.


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