Of each sweet herblet sip;

And ye, new swarms of bees, that go Where the pink flowers and yellow grow, To kiss them with your lip.

A hundred thousand times I call

A hearty welcome on ye all:
This season how I love,

This merry din on every shore,

For winds and storms, whose sullen roar
Forbade my steps to rove.

PIERRE RONSARD (French).

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives
In yonder greening gleam, and fly
The happy birds, that change their sky
To build and brood, that live their lives

From land to land; and in my breast
Spring wakens too: and my regret
Becomes an April violet,

And buds and blossoms like the rest.
ALFRED TENNYSON.

Anonymous Translation.

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?
Bring orchis, bring the fox-glove spire,
The little speedwell's darling blue,
Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew,
Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire.

O thou, new year, delaying long,

Delayest the sorrow in my blood, That longs to burst a frozen bud, And flood a fresher throat with song.

Now fades the last long streak of snow,

Now burgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow.

Now rings the woodland loud and long,
The distance takes a lovelier hue,
And drowned in yonder living blue
The lark becomes a sightless song.

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,
The flocks are whiter down the vale,
And milkier every milky sail,
On winding stream or distant sea;

When the Hounds of Spring.

WHEN the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain

Fills the shadows and windy places

With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain;
And the brown bright nightingale amorous
Is half assuaged for Itylus,

For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces,
The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.

Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers,
Maiden most perfect, lady of light,

With a noise of winds and many rivers,

With a clamor of waters, and with might; Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, Over the splendor and speed of thy feet; For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, Round the feet of the day and the feet of thenight. Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, Fold our hands round her knees and cling? Oh that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her,

Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring! For the stars and the winds are unto her As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her,

And the south-west wind and the west wind sing.

For winter's rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,

The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover

Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

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.

Spring.

JOHN KEBLE.

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 flowery bells;
Gemming shoots the olive twine;
Clusters bright festoon the vine;
All along the branches creeping,
Through the velvet foliage peeping,
Little infant fruits we see
Nursing into luxury.

Translation of THOMAS MOORE.

ANACREON.

(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,
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, ex

press

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.

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 was 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

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;

Spring.

Now the lusty Spring is seen;
Golden yellow, gaudy blue,
Daintily invite the view.
Everywhere, on every green,
Roses blushing as they blow,
And enticing men to pull;
Lilies whiter than the snow;
Woodbines of sweet honey full-
All love's emblems, and all cry:
Ladies, if not plucked, we die!

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

May.

I FEEL a newer life in every gale;
The winds that fan the flowers,

And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,
Tell of serener hours,—

Of hours that glide unfelt away
Beneath the sky of May.

The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls
From his blue throne of air,

And where his whispering voice in music falls,
Beauty is budding there;

The bright ones of the valley break
Their slumbers, and awake.

The waving verdure rolls along the plain,
And the wide forest weaves,

To welcome back its playful mates again,
A canopy of leaves;