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 MILTCN. A DROP OF DEW. 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; Because so long divided from the sphere; Trembling, lest it grow impure; 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 circling thoughts, express In how coy a figure wound, It all about does upwards bend. Such did the manna's sacred dew distil, White and entire, although congealed and chill 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. Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams As thou when two thou didst to Rome appear. A voice surpassing, far, Amphion's lyre, Kissing sometimes those purple ports of death An! my heart is weary waitingWaiting for the May— With the light dallying of the west-wind play; Waiting for the pleasant rambles, And the full-brimming floods, Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles EARLY SUMMER. Open unto the fields, and to the sky, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE SABBATH MORNING. WITH silent awe I hail the sacred morn, pose; The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move— Sc smiled the day when the first morn arose! JOHN LEYDen. THEY COME! THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS. 17 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 whis pering, "Be gay!" 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 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 western wind; Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again,—his notes are void of art; But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart. THEY come! the merry summer months of Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thoughtbeauty, song, and flowers; crazed wight like me, They come the gladsome months that bring To smell again these summer flowers beneath thick leafiness to bowers. this summer tree! Up, up, my heart! and walk abroad; fling To suck once more in every breath their litcark and care aside; tle souls away, Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peace- And feed my fancy with fond dreams of ful waters glide; Or, underneath the shadow vast of patri- When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the youth's bright summer day, reckless, truant boy archal tree, Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in Wandered through greenwoods all day long, rapt tranquillity. a mighty heart of joy! I'm proud to think The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful I'm sadder now-I have had cause; but O! to the hand; And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet is sweet and bland; delight to drink ;— Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calın, unclouded sky, Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days gone by. Keen as are the arrows When summer's loveliness and light fall round Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill Joyous, and fresh, and clear, thy music doth |