Ought to your pleasure, if ye wille me trowe," The busy bee her honey now she mings; Quod she ayen, "but to whom do ye owe "Madame," quoth I, "though I be least worthy, Unto the Leafe I owe mine observaunce:" And I pray God to honour you avaunce, And alle that good and well conditioned be. "For here may I no lenger now abide, And put al that I had seene in writing, GEOFFREY CHAUCER. Winter is worn that was the flowres' bale. And thus I see among these pleasant things Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs. LORD SURREY. THE AIRS OF SPRING. SWEETLY breathing, vernal air, On whose brow, with calm smiles drest, Thou, if stormy Boreas throws If he blast what's fair or good; THOMAS CAREW. DESCRIPTION OF SPRING. THE SOote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale; The nightingale with feathers new she sings; The turtle to her mate hath told her tale. Summer is come, for every spray now springs; The hart hath hung his old head on the pale, The buck in brake his winter coat he flings; The fishes flete with new repaired scale; The adder all her slough away she flings; The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale; RETURN OF SPRING. GOD shield ye, heralds of the spring, Houps, cuckoos, nightingales, God shield ye, Easter daisies all, Fair roses, buds, and blossoms small, THE Swallow is come! The swallow is come! He brings us the season of vernal delight, Have you nothing to spare, Or a slice of rich cheese? Is it yes, is it nay? On your gate and your door A small aid to our mirth, And whatever the gift, But boys who will have our own way. Translation of MITCHELL. MARCH. ANONYMOUS (Greek). THE Cock is crowing, The green field sleeps in the sun; Are at work with the strongest; Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! Like an army defeated On the top of the bare hill; 11 The ploughboy is whooping-anon-anon! The rain is over and gone! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. SPRING. DIP down upon the northern shore, What stays thee from the clouded noons, Every leaf in every nook, Every wave in every brook, Chanting with a solemn voice, Minds us of our better choice. Needs no show of mountain hoary, Winding shore or deepening glen, Where the landscape in its glory, Teaches truth to wandering men. Give true hearts but earth and sky, And some flowers to bloom and die; Homely scenes and simple views Lowly thoughts may best infuse. See the soft green willow springing Where the waters gently pass, Every way her free arms flinging O'er the moss and reedy grass. Long ere winter blasts are fled, See her tipp'd with vernal red, And her kindly flower displayed Ere her leaf can cast a shade. Though the rudest hand assail her, Patiently she droops awhile, But when showers and breezes hail her, Wears again her willing smile. Thus I learn contentment's power 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 JOHN KEBLE. ALMOND BLOSSOM. BLOSSOM of the almond-trees, On the bravest bough is seen; Ah! when winter winds are swinging All thy red bells into ringing, With a bee in every bell, Almond bloom, we greet thee well. SPRING. EDWIN ARNOLD. BEHOLD the young, the rosy Spring, Could it within the human flower be seen, In how coy a figure wound, The flowery May, who from her green lap Such did the manna's sacred dew distil, throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long. White and entire, although congeal'd and chill Congealed on earth, but does, dissolving, run Into the glories of th' Almighty sun. ANDREW MARVELL JOHN MILTON. SONG. A DROP OF DEW. SEE how the orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn Into the blowing roses, (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, PHOEBUS, arise, And paint the sable skies 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 wast wont before, With diadem of pearl thy temples fair: 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, An everlasting diamond should it mark. |