"Madame," quoth I, "though I be least worthy,

Unto the Leafe I owe mine observaunce:"
"That is," quod she, "right wel done cer-
tainly;

And I pray God to honour you avaunce,
And kepe you fro the wicked remembraunce
Of Malebouche, and all his crueltie,

And alle that good and well conditioned be.

"For here may I no lenger now abide,
I must followe the great company,
That ye may see yonder before you ride."
And forth, as I couth, most humbly,
I tooke my leve of her, as she gan hie
After them as faste as ever she might,
And I drow homeward, for it was nigh night,

And put al that I had seene in writing,
Under support of them that lust it to rede.
O little booke, thou art so unconning,
How darst thou put thy self in prees for drede?
It is wonder that thou wexest not rede!
Sith that thou wost ful lite who shall behold
Thy rude langage, ful boistously unfold.

GEOFFREY CHAUCER.

Winter is worn that was the flowres' bale. And thus I see among these pleasant things Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.

LORD SURREY.

THE AIRS OF SPRING.

SWEETLY breathing, vernal air,
That with kind warmth doth repair
Winter's ruins; from whose breast
All the gums and spice of th' East
Borrow their perfumes; whose eye
Gilds the morn, and clears the sky;
Whose disheveled tresses shed
Pearls upon the violet bed;

On whose brow, with calm smiles drest,
The halcyon sits and builds her nest;
Beauty, youth, and endless spring,
Dwell upon thy rosy wing!

Thou, if stormy Boreas throws
Down whole forests when he blows,
With a pregnant, flowery birth,
Canst refresh the teeming earth.
If he nip the early bud;

If he blast what's fair or good;
If he scatter our choice flowers;
If he shake our halls or bowers;
If his rude breath threaten us,
Thou canst stroke great Æolus,
And from him the grace obtain,
To bind him in an iron chain.

THOMAS CAREW.

DESCRIPTION OF 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 mate 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 flete with new repaired scale; The adder all her slough away she flings; The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale;

RETURN OF SPRING.

GOD shield ye, heralds of the spring,
Ye faithful swallows, fleet of wing,

Houps, cuckoos, nightingales,
Turtles, and every wilder bird,
That make your hundred chirpings heard
Through the green woods and dales.

God shield ye, Easter daisies all, Fair roses, buds, and blossoms small,

THE Swallow is come!

The swallow is come!

He brings us the season of vernal delight,
With his back all of sable, and belly of white.

Have you nothing to spare,
That his palate would please-
A fig, or a pear,

Or a slice of rich cheese?
Mark, he bars all delay:
At a word, my friend, say,

Is it yes, is it nay?
Do we go? do we stay?
One gift, and we're gone;
Refuse, and anon,

On your gate and your door
All our fury we pour;
Or our strength shall be tried
On your sweet little bride;
From her seat we will tear her,
From her home we will bear her;
She is light, and will ask
But small hands for the task.
Let your bounty then lift

A small aid to our mirth,

And whatever the gift,
Let its size speak its worth.
The swallow, the swallow,
Upon you doth wait;
An alms-man and suppliant,
He stands at your gate;
Let him in then, I say,
For no gray-beards are we,
To be foiled in our glee;

But boys who will have our own way.

Translation of MITCHELL.

MARCH.

ANONYMOUS (Greek).

THE Cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

11

The ploughboy is whooping-anon-anon!
There's joy on the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing ;

The rain is over and gone!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

SPRING.

DIP down upon the northern shore,
O sweet new year, delaying long;
Thou doest expectant nature wrong,
Delaying long; delay no more.

What stays thee from the clouded noons,
Thy sweetness from its proper place?
Can trouble live with April days,
Or sadness in the summer moons?

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 displayed 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, By the dusty wayside dear, Nightingales with joyous cheer Sing, my sadness to reprove, Gladlier than in cultured 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.

JOHN KEBLE.

ALMOND BLOSSOM.

BLOSSOM of the almond-trees,
April's gift to April's bees,
Birthday ornament of spring,
Flora's fairest daughterling;-
Coming when no flow'rets dare
Trust the cruel outer air;
When the royal king-cup bold
Dares not don his coat of gold;
And the sturdy blackthorn spray
Keeps his silver for the May;-
Coming when no flow'rets would,
Save thy lowly sisterhood,
Early violets, blue and white,
Dying for their love of light.
Almond blossom, sent to teach us
That the spring-days soon will reach us,
Lest, with longing over-tried,
We die as the violets died—
Blossom, clouding all the tree
With thy crimson broidery,
Long before a leaf of green

On the bravest bough is seen;

Ah! when winter winds are swinging

All thy red bells into ringing,

With a bee in every bell,

Almond bloom, we greet thee well.

SPRING.

EDWIN ARNOLD.

BEHOLD the young, the rosy Spring,
Gives to the breeze her scented wing,
While virgin graces, warm with May,
Fling roses o'er her dewy way.
The murmuring billows of the deep
Have languished into silent sleep;
And mark! the flitting sea-birds lave
Their plumes in the reflecting wave;
While cranes from hoary winter fly
To flutter in a kinder sky.
Now the genial star of day
Dissolves the murky clouds away,
And cultured field and winding stream
Are freshly glittering in his beam.
Now the earth prolific swells
With leafy buds and flow'ry bells:

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.

throws

The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.

Hail, bounteous May, that dost 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.

White and entire, although congeal'd and

chill

Congealed on earth, but does, dissolving, run Into the glories of th' Almighty sun.

ANDREW MARVELL

JOHN MILTON.

SONG.

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 mournful 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,

PHOEBUS, arise,

And paint the sable skies
With azure, white, and red;

Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tython's

bed,

That she thy career may with roses spread, The nightingales thy coming each where sing, Make an eternal spring.

Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; Spread forth thy golden hair

In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
And, emperor-like, decore

With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:
Chase hence the ugly night,

Which serves but to make dear thy glorious

light.

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