tere,

Would never flit but ever were stedfast,

Til that their lives there asunder brast."

Of alle knighthood and deeds marvelous; Record I take of Titus Livius.

And all that here on her awaiting beene,
It are such folk that loved idlenesse,
And not delite in no businesse,

But for to hunte and hauke, and pleye in medes,

And many other suchlike idle dedes.
"And for the great delite and pleasaunce
They have to the floure, and so reverently
They unto it do such obeisaunce,

As ye may se."-" Now faire Madame," quoth I,

9

"If I durst aske, what is the cause and why,
That knightes have the ensigne of honour,
Rather by the leafe than the floure?"
"Soothly, doughter," quod she, "this is the
trouth:--

For knightes ever should be persevering,
To seeke honour without feintise or slouto,
Fro wele to better in all manner thinge;
In signe of which, with leaves aye lastinge,
They be rewarded after their degre,
Whose lusty grene may not appaired be,

"But aie keping their beaute fresh and

greene;

For there nis storme that may hem deface, Haile nor snow, winde nor frostes kene; Wherfore they have this property and grace. And for the floure, within a little space Wolle be lost, so simple of nature

They be, that they no greevance may endure;

"And every storme will blowe them soone awaye,

Ne they laste not but for a sesone; That is the cause, the very trouth to saye, That they may not, by no way of resone, Be put to no such occupation." "Madame," quoth I, "with al mine whole servise

I thanke you now, in my most humble wise: "For now I am ascertained thurghly, Of every thing that I desired to knowe." "I am right glad that I have said, sothly,

"Madame," quoth I, "though I be least worthy,

Unto the Leafe I owe mine observaunce: "
"That is," quod she, "right wel done cer-
tainly;

And I pray God to honour you avaunce,
And kepe you fro the wicked remembraunce
Of Malebouche, and all his crueltie,

And alle that good and well conditioned be.

"For here may I no lenger now abide,
I must followe the great company,
That ye may see yonder before you ride."
And forth, as I couth, most humbly,
I tooke my leve of her, as she gan hie
After them as faste as ever she might,
And I drow homeward, for it was nigh night,

And put al that I had seene in writing,
Under support of them that lust it to rede.
O little booke, thou art so unconning,
How darst thou put thy self in prees for drede?
It is wonder that thou wexest not rede!
Sith that thou wost ful lite who shall behold
Thy rude langage, ful boistously unfold.
GEOFFREY CHAUCER.

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

LORD SUEREY.

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 disheveled 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!

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

DESCRIPTION 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;

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.

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

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.

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,

"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, O thou most fleet, 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 the night.

Where shal 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!

The oldest and youngest

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.

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 hoofed heel of a satyr crushes
The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.

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.

MARCH.

THE Cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun;

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

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

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;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTHI

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;

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 dic, Homely scenes and simple views Lowly thoughts may best infuse.

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.

Though the rndest hand assail her,

Patiently she droops awhile,

But when showers and breezes hail her,

Wears again her willing 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 bows 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

ALMOND BLOSSOM.

BLOSSOM of the almond-trees,
April's gift to April's bees,
Birthday ornament of spring,
Flora's fairest daughterling;-
Coming when no flowerets dare
Trust the cruel outer air;
When the royal king-cup bold
Dares not don his coat of gold;
And the sturdy blackthorn spray
Keeps his silver for the May;—
Coming when no flowerets would,
Save thy lowly sisterhood,
Early violets, blue and white,
Dying for their love of light.

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

SONG: ON MAY MORNING.

13

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