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 heach, Instinctive homage pay;

Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath

To honor thee, sweet May!

Where cities fanned 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.

Stripped 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 livelong day,

Till the first silver star appear,
The sovereignty of May.

GOLD AND SILVER FISHES IN A VASE.

THE soaring lark is blest as proud
When at heaven's gate she sings;

The roving bee proclaims aloud.
Her flight by vocal wings;

Yet might your glassy prison seem A place where joy is known, Where golden flash and silver gleam Have meanings of their own; While, high and low, and all about, Your motions, glittering Elves!

Ye weave, no danger from without, And peace among yourselves.

Type of a sunny human breast
Is your transparent ceil;

Where Fear is but a transient guest,
No sullen Humors dwell;

Where, sensitive of every ray

That smites this tiny sea,

Your scaly panoplies repay
The loan with usury.

How beautiful!-Yet none knows why This ever-graceful change,

Renewed, renewed incessantly,

Within your quiet range.

Is it that ye with conscious skill

For mutual pleasure glide;

And sometimes, not without your will,

Are dwarfed, or magnified?

Fays, Genii of gignatic size!

And now, in twilight dim, Clustering like constellated eyes,

In wings of Cherubim,

When the fierce orbs abate their glare;

Whate'er ye seem, whate'er ye are,—

All leads to gentleness.

Cold though your nature be, 'tis pure;

Your birthright is a fence

From all that haughtier kinds endure

Through tyranny of sense. Ah! not alone by colors bright

Are ye to heaven allied,

When, like essential forms of light,
Ye mingle, or divide.

For day-dreams soft as e'er beguiled
Day-thoughts while limbs repose;

For moonlight fascinations mild,
Your gift, ere shutters close,-

Accept, mute Captives! thanks and praise;
And may this tribute prove
That gentle admirations raise
Delight resembling love.

THAT happy gleam of vernal eyes,
Those locks from summer's golden skies,
That o'er thy brow are shed;

--

That cheek,-a kindling of the morn,-
That lip, a rose-bud from the thorn,—

I saw; and Fancy sped

To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through soft air.
Of bliss that grows without a care,
And happiness that never flies,-
(How can it where love never dies?)—
Whispering of promise, where no blight
Can reach the innocent delight;
Where pity, to the mind conveyed
In pleasure, is the darkest shade
That Time, unwrinkled grandsire, flings
From his smoothly gliding wings.

What mortal form, what earthly face,
Inspired the pencil, lines to trace,
And mingle colors, that should breed
Such rapture, nor want power to feed;
For had thy charge been idle flowers,
Fair Damsel! o'er my captive mind,
To truth and scher reason blind,