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;
But gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mornful light,
Like its own tear,

Because so long divided from the sphere;
Restless it rolls, and unsecure,

Trembling, lest it grow impure;
Till the warm sun pities its pain,
And to the skies exhales it back again.

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
The greater heaven in a heaven less.

In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away;
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day.
Dark beneath, but bright above;
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go!
How girt and ready to ascend!
Moving but on a point below,

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.
This is the morn should bring unto this grove
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 Phoebus in his chair
Ensaffroning sea and air,
Makes vanish every star:
Night like a drunkard reels

An! my heart is weary waitingWaiting for the May—

And the full-brimming floods,

Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles

Open unto the fields, and to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep,
In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will;
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE SABBATH MORNING.

WITH silent awe I hail the sacred morn,
That slowly wakes while all the fields are still!
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne;
A graver murmur gurgles from the rill;
And echo answers softer from the hill;
And softer sings the linnet from the thorn:
The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill.
Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn!
The rooks float silent by in airy drove;
The sun a placid yellow lustre throws;
The gales that lately sighed along the grove,
Have hushed their downy wings in dead re-

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.

this summer tree!

youth's bright summer day,

reckless, truant boy

a mighty heart of joy!

I'm proud to think

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
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear,