9

Night is nigh gone.

HEY, now the day's dawning;
The jolly cock's crowing;
The eastern sky's glowing;
Stars fade one by one;
The thistle-cock's crying
On lovers long lying,
Cease vowing and sighing;
The night is nigh gone.

The fields are o'erflowing
With gowans all glowing,
And white lilies growing,

A thousand as one;
The sweet ring-dove cooing,
His love notes renewing,
Now moaning, now suing;
The night is nigh gone.

The season excelling,
In scented flowers smelling,
To kind love compelling

Our hearts every one; With sweet ballads moving The maids we are loving, Mid musing and roving

The night is nigh gone.

Of war and fair women
The young knights are dreaming,
With bright breast plates gleaming,
And plumed helmets on;
The barbed steed neighs lordly,
And shakes his mane proudly,
For war-trumpets loudly

Say night is nigh gone.

I see the flags flowing,

The warriors all glowing,
And, snorting and blowing,
The steeds rushing on;
The lances are crashing,
Out broad blades come flashing
Mid shouting and dashing;
The night is nigh gone.

ALEXANDER MONTGOMERY.

Version of ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Morning in London.

EARTH has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This city now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep,

In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will;
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

The Sabbath Morning.

WITH silent awe I hail the sacred morn,
That slowly wakes while all the fields are still.
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne;
A graver murmur gurgles from the rill;
And echo answers softer from the hill;
And softer sings the linnet from the thorn:
The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill.
Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn!
The rooks float silent by in airy drove;
The sun a placid yellow luster throws;
The gales that lately sighed along the grove,
Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose;
The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move.
So smiled the day when the first morn arose !
JOHN LEYDEN.

The Merry Summer Months.

THEY come! the merry summer months of beauty, song, and flowers;

They come the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers.

Up, up, my heart! and walk abroad; fling cark and care aside;

Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide;

Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree, Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity.

And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day,

When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless, truant boy

And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland;

The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously;

It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and welcome thee;

And mark how with thine own thin locks-they now are silvery gray

That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering, "Be gay!"

mighty heart of joy!

But hath its own winged mariners to give it mel

ody;

Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all

gleaming like red gold;

And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry

course they hold.

God bless them all, those little ones, who, far above this earth,

Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth.

But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound-from yonder wood it came!

The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name.

Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that, apart from all his kind,

Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft west

ern wind;

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again-his notes are

void of art;

But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart.

Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thoughtcrazed wight like me,

To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree!

To suck once more in every breath their little souls

away,

hath waxed old!

Blackbird and thrush in every bush,

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, You pretty elves, amongst yourselves, Sing my fair love good-morrow. To give my love good-morrow,

THE ANGLER.

Sing, birds, in every furrow.

THOMAS HEYWOOD.

The Angler's Trysting-Tree.

SING, Sweet thrushes, forth and sing!

Meet the morn upon the lea;

Are the emeralds of the spring
On the angler's trysting-tree?
Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me,
Are there buds on our willow-tree?
Buds and birds on our trysting-tree?

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Have you met the honey-bee,
Circling upon rapid wing,

'Round the angler's trysting-tree?
Up, sweet thrushes, up and see,
Are there bees at our willow-tree?
Birds and bees at the trysting-tree?
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Are the fountains gushing free?
Is the south wind wandering
Through the angler's trysting-tree?
Up, sweet thrushes, tell to me,
Is there wind up our willow-tree?
Wind or calm at our trysting-tree?

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Wile us with a merry glee;
To the flowery haunts of spring,
To the angler's trysting-tree.

Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me,

Are there flowers 'neath our willow-tree?

Spring and flowers at the trysting-tree?

THOMAS TOD STODDART.

The Angler.

O! the gallant fisher's life,

It is the best of any:

"Tis full of pleasure, void of strife, And 'tis beloved by many;