The young horse whinneys to his mate,
And, sickening from the thresher's door,
Rubs at the straw-yard's banded gate,

Longing for freedom on the moor.

The small birds think their wants are o'er,
To see the snow-hills fret again,
And, from the barn's chaff-litter'd door,
Betake them to the greening plain.
The woodman's robin startles coy,

Nor longer to his elbow comes,

To peck, with hunger's eager joy,

'Mong mossy stulps the litter'd crumbs.

'Neath hedge and walls that screen the wind,
The gnats for play will flock together;
And e'en poor flies some hope will find
To venture in the mocking weather;

From out their hiding-holes again,

With feeble pace, they often creep

Along the sun-warm'd window-pane,

Like dreaming things that walk in sleep.

The mavis thrush with wild delight,
Upon the orchard's dripping tree,
Mutters, to see the day so bright,
Fragments of young hope's poesy :
And oft dame stops her buzzing wheel
To hear the robin's note once more,
Who tootles while he pecks his meal
From sweet-briar hips beside the door.

The sunbeams on the hedges lie,

The south wind murmurs summer-soft; The maids hang out white cloths to dry Around the elder-skirted croft:

A calm of pleasure listens round,
And almost whispers Winter by;
While fancy dreams of summer's sound,
And quiet rapture fills the eye.

Thus nature of the spring will dream
While south winds thaw; but soon again
Frost breathes upon the stiffening stream,
And numbs it into ice: the plain
Soon wears its mourning garb of white;
And icicles, that fret at noon,

Will eke their icy tails at night

Beneath the chilly stars and moon.

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 fleet with new repaired scale;
The adder all her slough away she flings;
The swift swallow pursueth the flies small;
The busy bee her honey now she mings; ‡
Winter is worn that was the flower's bale. §
And thus I see among these pleasant things
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey.

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 in the mountains.
There's life in the fountains;

Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!

W. Wordsworth.

SPRING.

Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost
Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream
Upon the silver lake, or crystal stream:
But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth
And makes it tender, gives a sacred birth
To the dead swallow, wakes in hollow tree

The drowsy cuckoo and the humble bee.
Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring
In triumph to the world, the youthful spring:
The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array,
Welcome the coming of the long'd-for May.

T. Carew.

THE STARLINGS.

EARLY in spring time, on raw and windy mornings,

Beneath the freezing house-eaves I heard the starlings sing— 'Ah dreary March month, is this then a time for building wearily? Sad, sad, to think that the year has but begun.'

Late in the autumn, on still and cloudless evenings,

Among the golden reed-beds I heard the starlings sing

'Ah that sweet March month, when we and our mates were courting merrily:

Sad, sad, to think that the year is all but done.'

SPRING.

FROST-LOCKED all the winter,

Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
What shall make their sap ascend

That they may put forth shoots?

Tips of tender green,

Leaf, or blade, or sheath;

Telling of the hidden life

That breaks forth underneath,

Life nursed in its grave by Death.

Blows the thaw-wind pleasantly,

Drips the soaking rain,

By fits looks down the waking sun:

Young grass springs on the plain;

Young leaves clothe early hedgerow trees;

Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,

Swollen with sap put forth their shoots;
Curled-headed ferns sprout in the lane;
Birds sing and pair again.

C

C. Kingsley.