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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,

Touch'd 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 die;
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 tipp'd with vernal red,
And her kindly flower display'd
Ere her leaf can cast a shade.

Though the rudest 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,

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By the dusty wayside dear,
Nightingales with joyous cheer
Sing, my sadness to reprove,
Gladlier than in cultur'd grove.

Where the thickest boughs 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.

MAY.

Oh, the merry May has pleasant hours,
And dreamingly they glide,

As if they floated like the leaves

Upon a silver tide.

The trees are full of crimson buds,
And the woods are full of birds,

And the waters flow to music,

Like a tune with pleasant words.

The verdure of the meadow-land
Is creeping to the hills;
The sweet, blue-bosom'd violets

Are blowing by the rills;
The lilac has a load of balm

For every wind that stirs,

And the larch stands green and beautiful,
Amid the somber firs.

There's perfume upon every wind

Music in every tree

Dews for the moisture-loving flowers

Sweets for the sucking bee;

The sick come forth for the healing South;

The young are gathering flowers;

And life is a tale of poetry,

That is told by golden hours.

JOHN KEBLE.

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Even the brook that leaps along,
Seems weary of its bubbling song,
And so soft its waters creep,
Tired silence sinks in sounder sleep;
The cricket on its bank is dumb,
The very flies forget to hum;
And, save the wagon rocking round,
The landscape sleeps without a sound.
The breeze is stopp'd, the lazy bough
Hath not a leaf that danceth now;
The taller grass upon the hill,

And spider's threads are standing still;

The feathers dropp'd from moorhen's wing,
Which to the water's surface cling,

Are steadfast, and as heavy seem,
As stones beneath them in the stream;
Hawkweed and groundsel's fanny downs
Unruffled keep their seedy crowns;
And in the oven-heated air

Not one light thing is floating there,
Save that to the earnest eye
The restless heat seems twittering by.
Noon swoons beneath the heat it made,
And flowers e'en within the shade,
Until the sun slopes in the west
Like weary traveler, glad to rest
On pillow'd clouds of many hues ;
Then Nature's voice its joy renews,
And checkered field and grassy plain,
Hum with their summer songs again,
A requiem to the day's decline,
Whose setting sunbeams coolly shine.
As welcome to day's feeble powers,
As falling dews to thirsty flowers.

JOHN CLARE.

AUGUST.

SONNET.

A power is on the earth and in the air,

From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid, And shelters him in nooks of deepest shade, From the hot steam, and from the fiery glare. Look forth upon the earth-her thousand plants

Are smitten; even the dark sun-loving maize
Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze
The herd beside the shaded fountain pants;
For life is driven from all the landscape brown;

The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den,
The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men
Drop by the sun-stroke in the populous town,
As if the Day of Fire had dawned and sent
Its deadly breath into the firmament.

AUGUST.

An August day! a dreamy haze
Films air, and mingles with the skies,
Sweetly the rich, dark sunshine plays,
Bronzing each object where it lies.
Outlines are melted in the gauze

W. C. BRYANT.

That Nature vails; the fitful breeze
From the thick pine low murmuring draws,
Then dies in flutterings midst the trees.
The bee is slumbering in the thistle,
And, now and then, a broken whistle,
A tread-a hum-a tap-is heard

Through the dry leaves, in grass and bush,
As insect, animal, and bird

Rouse brief from their lethargic hush.
Then e'en these pleasant sounds would cease,
And a dread stillness all things lock :
The aspen seem like sculptured rock,
And not a tassel thread be shaken,

The monarch pine's deep trance to waken,
And Nature settle prone in drowsy peace.
The misty blue-the distant masses,

The air in woven purple glimmering

The shiver transiently that passes

Over the leaves, as though each tree

Gave one brief sigh-the slumberous shimmering

Of the red light-invested seem

With some sweet charm, that soft, serene,

Mellows the gold-the blue-the green

Into mild temper'd harmony,

And melts the sounds that intervene,

As scarce to break the quiet, till we deem
Nature herself transform'd to Fancy's dream.

ALFEED STREET.

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