High as the imperial front of man,
The roseate bloom on woman's cheek;
The soaring eagle's curved beak
The white plumes of the floating swan;
Old as the tiger's paw, the lion's mane
Ere shaken by that mood of stern disdain

At which the desert trembles. Humming Bee!
Thy sting was needless then, perchance unknown;
The seeds of malice were not sown;

All creatures met in peace, from fierceness free,
And no pride blended with their dignity.
-Tears had not broken from their source;
Nor anguish strayed from her Tartarian den;
The golden years maintained a course
Not undiversified, though smooth and even;

We were not mocked with glimpse and shadow,-then
Bright Seraphs mixed familiarly with men;

And earth and stars composed a universal heaven!

$2.

In youth we love the darksome lawn
Brushed by the owlet's wing;
Then, Twilight is preferred to Dawn,
And Autumn to the Spring.
Sad fancies do we then affect,

In luxury of disrespect

To our own prodigal excess
Of too familiar happiness.

Lycoris (if such name befit

Thee, thee my life's celestial sign!) When Nature marks the year's decline, Be ours to welcome it;

Pleased with the harvest hope that runs

Before the path of milder suns;

Pleased while the sylvan world displays

Its ripeness to the feeding gaze;

Pleased when the sullen winds resound the knell Of the resplendent miracle.

3.

But something whispers to my heart
That, as we downward tend,
Lycoris! life requires an art
To which our souls must bend;
A skill to balance and supply;
And, ere the flowing fount be dry,
As soon it must, a sense to sip,
Or drink, with no fastidious lip.

Frank greeting, then, to that blithe Guest
Diffusing smiles o'er land and sea
To aid the vernal Deity

Whose home is in the breast!
May pensive Autumn ne'er present
A claim to her disparagement!

While blossoms and the budding spray

Inspire us in our own decay;

Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark gaol, Be hopeful Spring the favourite of the Soul!

TO THE SAME.

ENOUGH of climbing toil!- Ambition treads
Here, as 'mid busier scenes, ground steep and rough,
Or slippery even to peril! and each step,
As we for most uncertain recompense
Mount tow'rd the empire of the fickle clouds,
Each weary step, dwarfing the world below,
Induces, for its own familiar sights,
Unacceptable feelings of contempt,

With wonder mixed-that Man could e'er be tied,
In anxious bondage, to such nice array
And formal fellowship of petty things!
-Oh! 't is the heart that magnifies this life,
Making à truth and beauty of her own;
And moss-grown alleys, circumscribing shades,

And gurgling rills, assist her in the work More efficaciously than realms outspread, As in a map, before the adventurer's gazeOcean and Farth contending for regard.

The umbrageous woods are left-how far beneath!
But lo! where darkness seems to guard the mouth
Of yon wild cave, whose jagged brows are fringed
With flaccid threads of ivy, in the still
And sultry air, depending motionless.
Yet cool the space within, and not uncheered
(As whoso enters shall ere long perceive)
By stealthy influx of the timid day
Mingling with night, such twilight to compose
As Numa loved; when, in the Egerian Grot,
From the sage Nymph appearing at his wish,
He gained whate'er a regal mind might ask,
Or need, of council breathed through lips divine.

While mellow warble, sprightly trill.
The tremulous heart excite;
And hums the balmy air to still
The balance of delight.

Time was, blest Power! when Youths and Maida
At peep of dawn would rise,
And wander forth, in forest glades
Thy birth to solemnize.
Though mute the song

to grace the rite
Untouched the hawthorn bough,
Thy Spirit triumphs o'er the slight;
Man changes, but not Thou!

Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings
In love's disport employ;

Warmed by thy influence, creeping Things
Awake to silent joy:

Queen art thou still for each gay Plant
Where the slim wild Deer roves;
And served in depths where Fishes haunt
Their own mysterious groves.

Cloud-piercing Peak, and trackless Heath, Instinctive homage pay;

Nor wants the dim-lit Cave a wreath To honour Thee, sweet May! Whero Cities funned by thy brisk airs Behold a smokeless sky,

Their puniest Flower-pot nursling dares To open a bright eye.

And if, on this thy natal morn,

The Pole, from which thy name Hath not departed, stands forlorn

Of song and dance and game, Still from the village-green a vow Aspires to thee addrest Wherever peace is on the brow,

Or love within the breast.

Yes! where Love nestles thou canst teach The soul to love the more;

Hearts also shall thy lessons reach

That never loved before.
Stript is the haughty One of pride,
The bashful freed from fear,
While rising, like the ocean-tide,
In flows the joyous year.

Hush, feeble lyre! weak words refuse
The service to prolong!

To yon exulting Thrush the Muse
Intrusts the imperfect song;

His voice shall chant, in accents clear,

Throughout the live-long day,

Till the first silver Star appear,

The sovereignty of May.

TO MAY.

THOUGH many suns have risen and set
Since thou, blithe May, wert born,
And Bards, who hailed thee, may forget
Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn;
There are who to a birthday strain
Confine not harp and voice,
But evermore throughout thy reign
Are grateful and rejoice!

Delicious odours! music sweet,

Too sweet to pass away!
Oh for a deathless song to meet

The soul's desire-a lay
That, when a thousand years are told,
Should praise thee, genial Power!
Through summer heat, autumnal cold,
And winter's dreariest hour.

Earth, Sea, thy presence feel-nor less,
If yon ethereal blue

With its soft smile the truth express,
The Heavens have felt it too.
The inmost heart of man if glad
Partakes a livelier cheer;

And eyes that cannot but be sad
Let fall a brightened tear.

Since thy return, through days and weeks

Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks

Have kindled into health
The Old, by thee revived, have said,
"Another year is ours;"

And way worn Wanderers, poorly fed,
Have smiled upon thy flowers.

Who tripping lisps a merry song
Amid his playful peers?

The tender Infant who was long

A prisoner of fond fears;

But now, when every sharp-edged blast
Is quiet in its sheath,

His Mother leaves him free to taste
Earth's sweetness in thy breath.

Thy help is with the Weed that creeps
Along the humblest ground;

No Cliff so bare but on its steeps
Thy favours may be found;
But most on some peculiar nook

That our own hands have drest, Thou and thy train are proud to look, And seem to love it best.

And yet how pleased we wander forth, When May is whispering, "Come! Choose from the bowers of virgin earth The happiest for your home;

Heaven's bounteous love through me is spread

From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves,
Drops on the mouldering turret's head,
And on your turf-clad graves!"

Such greeting heard, away with sighs
For lilies that must fade,

Or "the rathe primrose as it dies
Forsaken" in the shade!
Vernal fruitions and desires

Are linked in endless chase;
While, as one kindly growth retires,
Another takes its place.

And what if thou, sweet May, hast known
Mishap by worm and blight;

If expectations newly blown

Have perished in thy sight;

If loves and joys, while up they sprung,
Were caught as in a snare;
Such is the lot of all the young,
However bright and fair.

Lo! Streams that April could not check
Are patient of thy rule;
Gurgling in foamy water-break,
Loitering in glassy pool:

By thee, thee only, could be sent
Such gentle Mists as glide,
Curling with unconfirmed intent,
On that green mountain's side.

How delicate the leafy veil

Through which yon House of God Gleams 'mid the peace of this deep dale. By few but shepherds trod!

And lowly Huts, near beaten ways,

No sooner stand attired

In thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise
Peep forth, and are admired.

Season of fancy and of hope,

Permit not for one hour

A blossom from thy crown to drop,

Nor add to it a flower!

Keep, lovely May, as if by touch

Of self-restraining art,

This modest charm of not too much,
Part seen, imagined part!

DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS.

"Not to the earth confined,

"Ascend to heaven."

WHERE will they stop, those breathing Powers,
The Spirits of the new-born flowers?
They wander with the breeze, they wind
Where'er the streams a passage find;

Up from their native ground they rise
In mute uërial harmonies;
From humble violet, modest thyme,
Exhaled, the essential odours climb,
As if no space below the sky

Their subtle flight could satisfy:

Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride If like ambition be their guide.

Roused by this kindliest of May-showers,
The spirit-quickener of the flowers,
That with moist virtue softly cleaves

The buds, and freshens the young leaves,
The Birds pour forth their souls in note
Of rapture from a thousand throats,
Here checked by too impetuous haste,
While there the music runs to waste,
With bounty more and more enlarged,
Till the whole air is overcharged;
Give ear, O Man! to their appeal
And thirst for no inferior zeal,

Thou, who canst think, as well as feel.

1

And humours change, are spurned like weeds :*
The solemn rites, the awful forms,
Founder amid fanatic storms;
The priests are from their altars thrust,
The temples levelled with the dust:
Yet evermore, through years renewed
In undisturbed vicissitude

Of seasons balancing their flight

On the swift wings of day and night,

*See Note.

Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door

Wide open for the scattered Poor.

Where flower-breathed incense to the skies

Is wafted in mute harmonies;

And ground fresh cloven by the plough

Is fragrant with a humbler vow;
Where birds and brooks from leafy dells
Chime forth unwearied canticles,
And vapours magnify and spread
The glory of the sun's bright head;
Still constant in her worship, still
Conforming to the Almighty Will,
Whether men sow or reap the fields,
Her admonitions Nature yields;
That not by bread alone we live,
Or what a hand of flesh can give;
That every day should leave some part
Free for a sabbath of the heart;
So shall the seventh be truly blest,
From morn to eve, with hallowed rest.

THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK.

A Rock there is whose homely front
The passing Traveller slights;
Yet there the Glow-worms hang their lamps,
Like stars, at various heights;

And one coy Primrose to that Rock
The vernal breeze invites.

What hideous warfare hath been waged,
What kingdoms overthrown,
Since first I spied that Primrose-tuft
And marked it for my own;

A lasting link in Nature's chain
From highest heaven let down!

The Flowers, still faithful to the stems,
Their fellowship renew;

The stems are faithful to the root,
That worketh out of view;
And to the rock the root adheres,
In every fibre true.

Close clings to earth the living rock,
Though threatening still to fall;
The earth is constant to her sphere;
And God upholds them all:

So blooms this lonely Plant, nor dreads
Her annual funeral.

* * * *

Here closed the meditative Strain;
But air breathed soft that day,
The hoary mountain-heights were cheered,
The sunny vale looked gay;

And to the Primrose of the Rock

I gave this after-lay.

Such be our Spring, our Summer such;
So may our Autumn blend
With hoary Winter, and life touch,
Through heaven-born hope, her end!

THE unremitting voice of nightly streams

That wastes so oft, we think, its tuneful powers,

If neither soothing to the worm that gleams

Through dewy grass, nor small birds hushed in bowers, Nor unto silent leaves and drowsy flowers,—

That voice of unpretending harmony

(For who what is shall measure by what seems
To be, or not to be,

Or tax high Heaven with prodigality?)
Wants not a healing influence that can creep
Into the human breast, and mix with sleep
To regulate the motion of our dreams
For kindly issues -as through every clime
Was felt near murmuring brooks in earliest time,
As at this day, the rudest swains who dwell
Where torrents roar, or hear the tinkling knell
Of water-breaks, with grateful heart could tell.