And lingering on the distant snow-streak'd hills,
Displays the motley remnants of his reign.

With shoulder'd spade, the labourer to the field
Hies, joyful that the soften'd glebe gives leave
To toil; no more his children cry for bread,
Or, shivering, crowd around the scanty fire;
No more he's doom'd, reluctant, to receive
The pittance which the rich man proudly gives,
Who, when he gives, thinks Heaven itself obliged.
Vain man! think not there's merit in the boon,
If, quitting not one comfort, not one joy,
The sparkling wine still circles round thy board,
Thy hearth still blazes, and the sounding strings,
Blent with the voice symphonious, charm thine ear.
The redbreast now, at morn, resumes his song,
And larks, high-soaring, wing their spiral flight,
While the light-hearted plough-boy singing, blithe,
'The broom, the bonny broom of Cowdenknowes,'
Fills with delight the wandering townsman's ear;
May be, though caroll'd rude in artless guise,
Sad Flodden Field, of Scotia's lays most sweet,
Most mournful, dims, with starting tear, his eye.
Nor silent are the upland leas; cheerily
The partridge now her tuneless call repeats,
Or, bursting unexpected from the brake,
Startles the milkmaid singing o'er the ridge.
Nor silent are the chilly leafless woods;
The thrush's note is heard amid the grove,
Soon as the primrose, from the wither'd leaves,
Smiling, looks out: rash floweret! oft betray'd,
By summer-seeming days, to venture forth
Thy tender form, the killing northern blast
Will wrap thee lifeless in a hoar-frost shroud.

APRIL.

DESCEND, Sweet April, from yon watery bow,
And, liberal, strew the ground with budding flowers,
With leafless crocus, leaf-veil'd violet,

Auricula, with powder'd cup, primrose

That loves to lurk below the hawthorn shade.
At thy approach health re-illumes the eye:
Even pale Consumption, from thy balmy breath,
Inhales delusive hope; and, dreaming still
Of length of days, basks in some sunny plat,
And decks her half-foreboding breast with flowers,
With flowers, which else would have survived the hand
By which they're pull'd. But they will bloom again:
The daisy, spreading on the greensward grave,
Fades, dies, and seems to perish, yet revives.
Shall man for ever sleep? Cruel the tongue!
That, with sophistic art, snatches from pain,
Disease, and grief, and want, that antidote,
Which makes the wretched smile, the hopeless hope.
Light now the western gale sweeps o'er the plain,
Gently it waves the rivulet's cascade;

Gently it parts the lock on beauty's brow,
And lifts the tresses from the snowy neck,

And bends the flowers, and makes the lily stoop,
As if to kiss its image in the wave;

Or curls, with softest breath, the glassy pool,
Aiding the treachery of the mimic fly;
While, warily, behind the half-leaved bush,
The angler screen'd, with keenest eye intent,
Awaits the sudden rising of the trout:
Down dips the feathery lure; the quivering rod
Bends low; in vain the cheated captive strives
To break the yielding line; exhausted soon,

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Ashore he 's drawn, and, on the mossy bank
Weltering, he dyes the primrose with his blood.

MAY.

ON blithe May morning, when the lark's first note
Ascends, on viewless wing, veil'd in the mist,
The village maids then hie them to the woods
To kiss the fresh dew from the daisy's brim;
Wandering in misty glades they lose their way,
And, ere aware, meet in their lovers' arms,
Like joining dew-drops on the blushing rose.

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Sweet month! thy locks with bursting buds bedeck'd, With opening hyacinths, and hawthorn blooms, Fair still thou art, though showers bedim thine eye; 10 The cloud soon quits thy brow; and, mild, the sun Looks out with watery beam-looks out, and smiles. Now from the wild-flower bank the little bird Picks the soft moss, and to the thicket flies; And oft returns, and oft the work renews, Till all the curious fabric hangs complete : Alas! but ill conceal'd from schoolboy's eye, Who, heedless of the warbler's saddest plaint, Tears from the bush the toil of many an hour; Then, thoughtless wretch! pursues the devious bee, Buzzing from flower to flower she wings her flight, Far from his following eye, to wall'd parterres, Where, undisturb'd, she revels 'mid the beds Of full-blown lilies, doom'd to die uncull❜d, Save when the stooping fair (more beauteous flower!) The bosom's rival brightness half betrays, While choosing 'mong the gently bending stalks, The snowy hand a sister blossom seems.

More sweet to me the lily's meeken'd grace Than gaudy hues, brilliant as summer clouds

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Around the sinking sun to me more sweet
Than garish day, the twilight's soften'd grace,
When deepening shades obscure the dusky woods;
Then comes the silence of the dewy hour,

With songs of noontide birds, thrilling in fancy's ear,
While from yon elm, with water-kissing boughs
Along the moveless winding of the brook,
The smooth expanse is calmness, stillness all,
Unless the springing trout, with quick replunge,
Arousing meditation's downward look,
Ruffle, with many a gently circling wave
On wave, the glassy surface undulating far.

JUNE.

SHORT is the reign of night, and almost blends
The evening twilight with the morning dawn.
Mild hour of dawn! thy wide-spread solitude
And placid stillness soothe even misery's sigh:
Deep the distress that cannot feel thy charm!
As yet the thrush roosts on the bloomy spray,
With head beneath his dew-besprinkled wing,
When, roused by my lone tread, he lightly shakes
His ruffling plumes, and chants the untaught note,
Soon follow'd by the woodland choir, warbling
Melodiously the oft-repeated song,

Till noontide pour the torpor-shedding ray.
Then is the hour to seek the sylvan bank
Of lonely stream, remote from human haunt ;
To mark the wild bee voyaging, deep-toned,
Low weighing down each floweret's tender stalk;
To list the grasshopper's hoarse creaking chirp ;
And then to let excursive fancy fly

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To scenes where roaring cannon drown the straining voice, And fierce gesticulation takes the place

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Of useless words. May be some Alpine brook,
That served to part two neighbouring shepherds' flocks,
Is now the limit of two hostile camps.

Weak limit! to be fill'd, ere evening star,

With heaps of slain. Far down thy rocky course,
The midnight wolf, lapping the blood-stain'd flood,
Gluts his keen thirst, and oft and oft returns,
Unsated, to the purple, tepid stream.

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But let me fly such scenes, which, even when feign'd,
Distress. To Scotia's peaceful glens I turn,
And rest my eyes upon her waving fields,

Where now the scythe lays low the mingled flowers.
Ah, spare, thou pitying swain! a ridge-breadth round
The partridge nest: so shall no new-come lord,
To ope a vista to some distant spire,

Thy cottage raze; but, when the toilsome day
Is done, still shall the turf-laid seat invite.

Thy weary limbs; there peace and health shall bless
Thy frugal fare, served by the unhired hand,
That seeks no wages save a parent's smile.
Thus glides the eve, while round the strawy roof
Is heard the bat's wing in the deep-hush'd air,
And from the little field the corncraik's harsh,
Yet not unpleasing note, the stillness breaks,
All the night long, till day-spring wake the lark.

JULY.

SLOW move the sultry hours. Oh, for the shield
Of darkening boughs, or hollow rock grotesque !
The pool transparent to its pebbly bed,
With here and there a slowly gliding trout,
Invites the throbbing, half-reluctant breast
To plunge the dash re-echoes from the rocks;
Smoothly, in sinuous course, the swimmer winds,

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