Then around you we'll dance, and around you we'll sing To soft pipe and sweet tabor we'll foot it away; And the hills, and the dales, and the forests shall ring, While we hail you our lovely young Queen of the May. George Darley. SONG. PACK clouds away, and welcome day, Notes from them all I'll borrow. Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast, Thomas Heywood. TO A SKYLARK. Up with me, up with me, into the clouds! For thy song, lark, is strong, Up with me, up with me, into the clouds! With clouds and sky about thee ringing, The spot which seems so to thy mind! I have walked through wildernesses dreary, And to-day my heart is weary; Had I now the wings of a Faery, Up to thee would I fly. There is madness about thee, and joy divine In that song of thine; Lift me, guide me, high and high, To thy banqueting-place in the sky. Joyous as morning, Thou art laughing and scorning: Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, Happy, happy Liver, With a soul as strong as a mountain river, Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, Joy and jollity be with us both! TO THE CUCKOO. Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven, Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind; As full of gladness and as free of heaven, And hope for higher raptures when life's day is done. William Wordsworth. TO THE CUCKOO. HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of Spring! And woods thy welcome sing. Soon as the daisy decks the green, Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, The school-boy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, thy most curious voice to hear, And imitates thy lay. What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thon fliest thy vocal vale, 25 An annual guest in other lands, Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, Oh could I fly, I'd fly with thee! John Logan. TO THE CUCKOO. O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear; Though babbling only to the vale, Thou bringest unto me a tale Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! THE GREEN LINNET. No bird, but an invisible thing, The same that in my school-boy days Which made me look a thousand ways, To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And I can listen to thee yet; O blessed bird! the earth we pace, An unsubstantial, faery place, That is fit home for thee! William Wordsworth. THE GREEN LINNET. BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs, that shed In this sequestered nook, how sweet And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together. 27 |