Revive my bosom with their kindlings still, John Clare. THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. THY fruit full well the schoolboy knows, So, put thou forth thy small white rose; Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow Thou need'st not be ashamed to show For dull the eye, the heart is dull, Thy tender blossoms are ; How delicate thy gauzy frill, How rich thy branchy stem, How soft thy voice when woods are still While silent showers are falling slow, A sweet air lifts the little bough, Lone whispering through the bush! The primrose to the grave is gone; The hawthorn flower is dead; A PASTORAL SONG. The violet by the mossed gray stone But thou! wild bramble! back dost bring, The fresh green days of life's fair Spring, Scorned bramble of the brake! once more To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, In freedom and in joy. A PASTORAL SONG. HITHER! hither! O come hither! Lads and lasses, come and see! Trip it neatly, Foot it featly, O'er the grassy turf to me! Here are bowers Hung with flowers, Richly curtain'd halls for you! Meads for rovers, Shades for lovers, Violet beds, and pillows too! Purple heather You may gather Sandal-deep in seas of bloom, Ebenezer Elliott. 67 Pale-faced lily, Proud Sweet-Willy, Gorgeous rose, and golden broom! Odorous blossoms For sweet bosoms, Garlands green to bind the hair; Weft of myrtles, Youth may choose, and Beauty wear! Brightsome glasses For bright faces 'Shine in ev'ry rill that flows; Every minute You look in it Still more bright your beauty grows! Banks for sleeping, Nooks for peeping, Glades for dancing, smooth and fine! Fruits delicious For who wishes, Nectar, dew, and honey-wine! Hither! hither! O come hither! Lads and lasses, come and see! Trip it neatly, Foot it featly, O'er the grassy turf to me! George Darley. A SERENADE. AWAKE thee, my Lady-love! The sun through the bower peeps Behold how the early lark Hark, hark how the flower-bird Winds her wee horn! The swallow's glad shriek is heard Loud as she dare! Apollo's winged bugleman Cannot contain, But peals his loud trumpet-call Once and again! Then wake thee, my Lady-love! Bird of my bower! The sweetest and sleepiest Bird at this hour! George Darley. A SCENE. THE Landscape's stretching view, that opens wide, With dribbling brooks, and river's wider floods, And hills, and vales, and darksome lowering woods, With green of varied hues, and grasses pied; The low brown cottage in the sheltered nook; The steeple, peeping just above the trees Whose dangling leaves keep rustling in the breeze; And thoughtful shepherd bending o'er his hook; And maidens stripped, haymaking too, appear; And Hodge a-whistling at his fallow plough; And herdsmen hallooing to intruding cow: All these, with hundreds more, far off or near, Approach my sight; and please to such excess, That language fails the pleasure to express. John Clare A LAIR AT NOON. THE hawthorn gently stopped the sun, beneath, Bowed 'neath my pressure in an easy bed: And sweet the splashings on the ear did swim, Of fly-bit cattle gulching in the brook, Nibbling the grasses on the fountain's brim : The little minnows, driven from their retreat, Still sought the shelving bank to shun the heat. I fain had slept, but flies would buzz around; I fain had looked calmly on the scene, But the sweet snug retreat my search had found Wakened the Muse to sing the woody screen. John Clare. |