O the Spring! the bountiful Spring!
She shineth and smileth on every thing.

Where come the sheep?

To the rich man's moor. Where cometh sleep?

To the bed that's poor.

Peasants must weep,

And kings endure;

This is a fate that none can cure:
Yet Spring doeth all she can, I trow;
She bringeth the bright hours,
She weaveth the sweet flowers,
She dresseth her bowers,

For all below!

O the Spring! the bountiful Spring!
She shineth and smileth on every thing.

Barry Cornwall.

SONG.

Now the lusty Spring is seen
Golden yellow, gaudy blue.
Daintily invite the view.
Everywhere, on every green,
Roses blushing as they blow

And enticing men to pull,
Lilies whiter than the snow,
Woodbines, of sweet honey full :
All love's emblems, and all cry,
"Ladies, if not plucked, we die."

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

Yet the lusty Spring hath stayed;

Blushing red and purest white
Daintily to love invite

Every woman, every maid.
Cherries kissing as they grow,
And inviting men to taste,
Apples even ripe below,
Winding gently to the waist:

All love's emblems, and all cry,

"Ladies, if not plucked, we die."

Beaumont and Fletcher.

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sat reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

13

The budding twigs spread out their fan

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

William Wordsworth.

SONG OF SPRING.

LAUD the first spring daisies;
Chant aloud their praises;

Send the children up

To the high hill's top;

Tax not the strength of their young hands

To increase your lands.

Gather the primroses,

Make handfuls into posies;

Take them to the little girls who are at work in mills: Pluck the violets blue

Ah, pluck not a few!

Knowest thou what good thoughts from Heaven the violet instils?

Give the children holidays

(And let these be jolly days),

Grant freedom to the children in this joyous spring;
Better men, hereafter,

Shall we have, for laughter