It was a world of things sincere ;

Nor rum was known, nor lager beer.

If from the mossy fountain's brink

Men turned some sweeter draught to drink,
Cool clustered grapes were pressed in the cup;
A nectar humming-birds might sup,
Or robin-redbreasts, when they pair.
Nor be the worse for such a fare.

It was the first of April; though

Nor Sun nor Wind as yet did know
The months would e'er be christened so,
But went in their simplicity,

From guile and malice wholly free,
As sportive maids could ever be.
The birds already 'gan to sing,
And prophesied an early Spring.

That morn the laughing day did break,

As eyelids of a babe awake.

From slumbering on its mother's breast,
With love and infant dreams refreshed.

Had you been there, you would have thought That April slumbering June had caught, And in a masque so changed attire As would confound the boldest liar.

The sun with such sweet lustre rose, As the earth's bridal morning shows.

The sleeping buds, each with his cup,

Drank the divine solution up.
Their infant blossoms 'gan unroll,

In leaflets to the sweet control
Of such a fond caressing gale,

As blushes fired in cheeks so pale,

That you might think the boughs were hung
With snow-drifts, and with roses strung;
Or apple-blooms had instant shown,
Where snow-drops only could have grown.

And so the exquisite process grew,
In simple faith, all the day through.
All Nature did the summer greet,
Childlike, and thoughtless of deceit;
Till that which should have waited weeks,
Beguiled by unsuspected freaks,

Sprung to such sweetness in one day,
As one night's frost might sweep away.

And sooth, it came; for the warm Sun
And frolic Wind, their mischief done,
Not knowing what the end would be,
Of all this sportive treachery,
Resumed the manners of the spring,
To see what droll alarm 't would bring.

So frost and snow, with clouds and rain, Beat down upon the woods again;

And summer's sun, and April showers,
And balmy gales, wooing the flowers,
Wearily waited for, came not,

That should have come unbribed, unsought;

But wintry gloom and frosty air,

And dying buds and blank despair,
With mildewed leaves, and scar and blot;
Instead of lovely blossoms, fraught
With grateful thanks to sun and air,
That made Eve's paradise so fair.

And now the Sun and Wind once more
Renewed the utmost of their power.
Repenting of their hasty game,

To drooping Nature's help they came.
But all too late! All they could do,
The whole o' the backward spring run through,

Regret, remorse, could not redeem

Their fraud on Nature's simple scheme.

July itself but brought again

April, where July should have been.

Where breathes and blooms the first of June,

The first of April was too soon.

Spring-tide and harvest both went wrong;
And all the summer season long
The Sun and Wind were heard to say,
"Ourselves were the April fools that day.
Who would have thought a few short hours.
Could work such havoc with the flowers!"

Oh, happy world, were all misrule No worse than Nature's play at school; For each new season would restore Creation's beauty as before.

But we are under sacred laws

Of heart and thought and word, because A dreadful and malignant power

Is ever waiting to devour,

And watching still, in things of good, Some opening where he may intrude. And worlds of mischief may be wrought By idle speech, from careless thought, With inconsiderate lessons taught.

The promise you have made in fun,
Redeem before the setting sun:
For truth and love are the only power
That can be trusted with one hour,
And careless jests oft harm procure,
That all our wisdom cannot cure,
And plant a woe, all Nature through,
Mere penitence could ne'er undo.
And prepossessive falsehoods blight
A life with fairest promise bright.

Good moods are sibyls, coy and shy,
And jealous of neglect;

And if you pass them heedless by,

Revenge you may expect.

If God's dear words were man's good pleasure,
There were no need of other treasure;
For still the endowment of his Spirit
Each soul sincere would sure inherit.

But ah, the misery of that well-known rhyme,
Procrastination is the thief of Time!

THE FIRST MAY MORNING.

He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves wit' him. Ps. CXXVI. 6.

HE husbandman hath patience long,

ΤΗ

Praying and sowing, morn and eve, — The confidence of reason strong,

Through faith that natural lessons give.

At each renewal of the spring,

So lovely that the heavens rejoice, Prophetic songs that angels sing, Foretell the reaper's grateful voice.

Thy bread upon the waters cast,

Shall prove thine endless blessing still,
Long as the years of time shall last,
God's primal promise to fulfil.

Praying and praising may I go,

And drop with every word a tear,

Through all God's gardening world to show
The fruits that faith and mercy bear.