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,

Re Another year is ours";

And wayworn 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.

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And yet how pleased we wander forth

When May is whispering, "Come!

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"Choose from the bowers of virgin earth

"The happiest for your home;

ee

"Heaven's bounteous love through me is spread

From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves,

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;

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If loves and joys, while up they sprung,

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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;

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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!

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1826-1834.

THE WISHING-GATE.

In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of the old high-way leading to Ambleside, is a gate, which, time out of mind, has been called the Wishing-gate, from a belief that wishes formed or indulged there have a favourable issue.

HOPE rules a land forever green :

All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen
Are confident and gay ;

Clouds at her bidding disappear;

Points she to aught? — the bliss draws near,

And Fancy smooths the way.

Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer,

And thoughts with things at strife;

Yet how forlorn, should ye depart

Ye superstitions of the heart,

How poor, were human life!

When magic lore abjured its might,
Ye did not forfeit one dear right,

One tender claim abate;

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Then why should conscious Spirits fear
The mystic stirrings that are here,

The ancient faith disclaim?

The local Genius ne'er befriends
Desires whose course in folly ends,

Whose just reward is shame.

Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn,
If some, by ceaseless pains outworn,
Here crave an easier lot;

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If some have thirsted to renew

A broken vow, or bind a true,

With firmer, holier knot.

And not in vain, when thoughts are cast
Upon the irrevocable past,

Some Penitent sincere

May for a worthier future sigh,

While trickles from his downcast eye

No unavailing tear.

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The Sage, who feels how blind, how weak

Is man, though loth such help to seek,

Yet, passing, here might pause,

And thirst for insight to allay

Misgiving, while the crimson day

In quietness withdraws;

Or when the church-clock's knell profound

To Time's first step across the bound

Of midnight makes reply;

Time pressing on with starry crest,

To filial sleep upon the breast

Of dread eternity.

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