Nor deem that localised Romance
Plays false with our affections;
Unsanctifies our tears-made sport
For fanciful dejections:

Oh, no! the visions of the past
Sustain the heart in feeling
Life as she is our changeful Life,
With friends and kindred dealing.

Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day
In Yarrow's groves were centred ;
Who through the silent portal arch
Of mouldering Newark enter'd;
And clomb the winding stair that once
Too timidly was mounted

By the "last Minstrel," (not the last!)
Ere he his Tale recounted.

Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream!

Fulfil thy pensive duty,

Well pleased that future Bards should chant
For simple hearts thy beauty;
To dream-light dear while yet unseen,
Dear to the common sunshine,

And dearer still, as now I feel,

To memory's shadowy moonshine!

TO MAY.

THOUGH many suns have risen and set
Since thou, blithe May, wert born,
And Bards, who hailed thee, may forget
Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn;
There are who to a birthday strain
Confine not harp and voice,
But evermore throughout thy reign
Are grateful and rejoice!

Delicious odours! music sweet,
Too sweet to pass away!
Oh for a deathless song to meet
The soul's desire-a lay

That, when a thousand years are told,
Should praise thee, genial Power!
Through summer heat, autumnal cold,
And winter's dreariest hour.

Earth, Sea, thy presence feel-nor less,
If yon ethereal blue

With its soft smile the truth express,

The Heavens have felt it too.
The inmost heart of man if glad

Partakes a livelier cheer;
And eyes that cannot but be sad
Let fall a brightened tear.

Since thy return, through days and weeks
Of hope that grew by stealth,
How many wan and faded cheeks

Have kindled into health!

The old, by thee revived, have said,

"Another year is ours:

And wayworn wanderers, poorly fed,
Have smiled upon thy flowers.

Who tripping lisps a merry song
Amid his playful peers?

The tender Infant who was long

A prisoner of fond fears;

But now, when every sharp-edged blast
Is quiet in its sheath,

His Mother leaves him free to taste
Earth's sweetness in thy breath.

Thy help is with the weed that creeps
Along the humblest ground;
No cliff so bare but on its steeps
Thy favours may be found;
But most on some peculiar nook
That our own hands have drest,
Thou and thy train are proud to look,
And seem to love it best.

And yet how pleased we wander forth
When May is whispering, "Come!
Choose from the bowers of virgin earth
The happiest for your home;

Heaven's bounteous love through me is spread

From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves, Drops on the mouldering turret's head, And on your turf-clad graves!"

Such greeting heard, away with sighs
For lilies that must fade,

Or "the rathe primrose as it dies
Forsaken" in the shade!

Vernal fruitions and desires

Are linked in endless chase : While, as one kindly growth retires, Another takes its place.

And what if thou, sweet May, hast known
Mishap by worm and blight;
If expectations newly blown

Have perished in thy sight;

If loves and joys, while up they sprung,

Were caught as in a snare ; Such is the lot of all the young,

However bright and fair.

Lo! streams that April could not check
Are patient of thy rule ;
Gurgling in foamy water-break,
Loitering in glassy pool :
By thee, thee only, could be sent
Such gentle mists as glide,
Curling with unconfirmed intent,
On that green mountain's side.

How delicate the leafy veil

Through which yon House of God
Gleams 'mid the peace of this deep dale
By few but shepherds trod !
And lowly huts near beaten ways,

No sooner stand attired

In thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise Peep forth, and are admired.

Season of fancy and of hope,
Permit not for one hour

A blossom from thy crown to drop,
Nor add to it a flower!

Keep, lovely May, as if by touch

Of self-restraining art,

This modest charm of not too much,
Part seen, imagined part!

THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK.

A Rock there is whose homely front
The passing traveller slights;

Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps,
Like stars, at various heights;

And one coy Primrose to that Rock

The vernal breeze invites.

What hideous warfare hath been waged,

What kingdoms overthrown,

Since first I spied that Primrose-tuft
And marked it for my own;

A lasting link in Nature's chain
From highest heaven let down!

The flowers, still faithful to the stems,
Their fellowship renew;

The stems are faithful to the root,
That worketh out of view;
And to the rock the root adheres
In every fibre true.

Close clings to earth the living rock,
Though threatening still to fall;
The earth is constant to her sphere;
And God upholds them all :

So blooms this lonely Plant, nor dreads
Her annual funeral.