S SPRING PRING, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! The palm and may make country houses gay, The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, T. Nash II SUMMONS TO LOVE PHOEBUS, arise! And paint the sable skies 1 A With azure, white, and red : That she may thy career 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 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 Penéus' streams Did once thy heart surprise. Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise : If that ye winds would hear A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, The winds all silent are, Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels : The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue, Here is the pleasant place And nothing wanting is, save She, alas ! W. Drummond of Hawthornden W HEN III TIME AND LOVE I I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced When I have seen the hungry ocean gain When I have seen such interchange of state, - This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose. IV W. Shakespeare S 2 INCE brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O how shall summer's honey breath hold out O fearful meditation! where, alack ! O! none, unless this miracle have might, W. Shakespeare V THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE OME live with me and be my Love, C That hills and valleys, dale and field, |