Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow

to the green, And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen: For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away,

And I'm to be Queen o'the May,mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, And I'm to be Queen o' the May,mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow grass ; And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass, There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day. And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still,

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,

And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill
merrily glance and play,
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother,
I'm to be Queen o' the May.

So you must wake and call me early,
call me early, mother dear.
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of
all the glad New-year:
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the
maddest merriest day,
For I'm to be Queen o' the May,mother,
I'm to be Queen o' the May.

NEW-YEAR'S EVE.

If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear.

For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year.

It is the last New-year that I shall ever see,

Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me.

To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind

The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; And the New-year's coming up,mother, but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.

Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day;

Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May: And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse,

Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney tops.

There's not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane :

I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again :

I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high:

I long to see a flower so before the day I die.

The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree,

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,

And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave,

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine,

In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine,

Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,

When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still.

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light,

You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;

When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool

On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool." You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you'll come sometimes and see mo where I am lowly laid.

I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now;

You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go;

Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild,

You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;

Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say,

And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for ever more, And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door;

Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green : She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.

I THOUGHT to pass away before, and yet alive I am;

And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb.

How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year!

To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here.

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies,

And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go.

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun,

And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done!

But still I think it can't be long before I find release,

And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.

O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair!

And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!

O blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head!

A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin.

Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in: Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be, For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,

There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet: But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,

And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call,

It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;

The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,

And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;

I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;

With all my strength I pray'd for both and so I felt resign'd

And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed.

And then did something speak to me
-I know not what was said;
For great delight and shuddering took
hold of all my mind,

And up the valley came again the music on the wind.

But you were sleeping and I said, "It's
not for them: it's mine."
And if it comes three times, I thought,
I take it for a sign.

And once again it came, and close
beside the window-bars,
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven
and die among the stars.

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know

The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go.

And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day.

But, Effie, you must comfort her when

I am past away.

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret;

There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet.

If I had lived-I cannot tell-I might have been his wife;

But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.

O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;

He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.

And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shineWild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done,

The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun

For ever and for ever with those just souls and true

And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home

And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come

To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast

And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

THE LOTOS-EATERS. "COURAGE! he said, and pointed toward the land,

"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon."

In the afternoon they came unto a land, In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon,

Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.

Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;

And like a downward smoke, the slender stream

Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

A land of streams! some like a downward smoke.

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;

And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke,

Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow

From the inner land: far off, three

And dear the last embraces of our wives

And their warm tears but all hath suffer'd change,

For surely now our household hearths are cold:

Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange;

And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.

Or else the island princes over-bold Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings

Before them of the ten years' war in Troy,

And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things,

Is there confusion in the little isle?
Let what is broken so remain.
The Gods are hard to reconcile:
"Tis hard to settle order once again.
There is confusion worse than death,
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,
Long labor unto aged breath,

Sore task to hearts worn out with many

wars

And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.

VII.

But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly,

How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly)

With half-dropt eyelids still,
Beneath a heaven dark and holy,

To watch the long bright river drawing slowly

His waters from the purple hill.
To hear the dewy echoes calling
From cave to cave thro' the thick-
twined vine-

To watch the emerald-color'd water falling

Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine!

Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,

Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine.

On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.

For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd

Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world: Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,

Blight and famine, plague and earth

quake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,

Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,

Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong;

Chanted from an ill-used race of men

that cleave the soil,

Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;

Till they perish and they suffer-some 'tis whisper'd-down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,

Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.

Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore

Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;

O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.

woes,

Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates,

And hush'd seraglios.

So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land

Bluster the winds and tides the selfsame way,

Crisp foam-flakes soud along the level sand,

Torn from the fringe of spray.

I started once, or seem'd to start in pain,

Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak,

As when a great thought strikes along the brain,

And flushes all the cheek.

And once my arm was lifted to hew down

A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town;

And then, I know not how, All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing thought

Stream'd onward, lost their edges, and creep

Roll'd on each other, smooth'd, and brought Into the gulfs of sleep.

rounded,

At last methought that I had wander'd far

In an old wood: fresh-wash'd in cool est dew,

The maiden splendors of the morning

star

Shook in the stedfast blue.