Till anew, Hush-cuckoo, Hark! it comes the wood-depths through. Now the woods are starred with eyes; Daisies pied and violets blue. Birds, they sing, All to swell the pomp of Spring. Now in poets' songs 'tis told How, in vales of Arcady, Once men knew an age of gold, Once the earth seemed heaven to be; Hark! they sing, Years, ye bring Golden times again with Spring. II. Now the fields are full of flowers ; Now in every country lane, Making mirth and gladness ours, Wild-flowers nod and blush again; Now they stain Longed-for lost ones come again. Now the mower, on his scythe Many a song the milkmaid blithe Carols through the morning now; Blithely lusty Roger now Through the furrows plods along, Singing to the creaking plough Many a quaint old country song; Morning rings, As he sings, With the praise of other Springs. Children now in every school Wish away the weary hours; Doubly now they feel the rule Barring them from buds and flowers; Bounding out, Lanes and fields to race about! Now with shrill and wondering shout, Till their laps with flowers are full; On the ground, Now they sort the wonders found. Now do those in cities pent, Spite of all, that life was meant Hark! they sing, Pleasant Spring Joy to all was meant to bring. Poets now in sunshine dream; Times that yet again might be. Years shall bring FROM SEA. IT was not for my mother, Though old she is, and poor she is, But it was for my true-love, That dearer is to me Than father and than mother both, The wind blows fair and freshly, That I think of night and day; And have dreamt of night and day, In calm and storm, and south the line, A thousand leagues away. Now, watch, look out to leeward! The land must sure be near. There looms the cape through the morning mist, That I've longed to see appear; Now, men, the sails be furling ! At our brown ship's side let our best boat ride, And while the rope you're casting off, Now pull-pull with a will, boys, That have tossed so long afloat; With each breath loved more and more— Yon girl whose brown hand shades her eyes, To see us pull ashore. She shades her eyes a moment— Does she see my torn hat waving? Does she catch my cry from here? Thomas Westwood. LITTLE BELL. "He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast." The Ancient Mariner. IPED the Blackbird, on the beechwood spray, PIPED "Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, What's your name?" quoth he. "What's your name? Oh! stop and straight unfold, Pretty maid, with showery curls of gold." Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks, 66 66 Bonny bird!" quoth she, And the Blackbird piped-you never heard Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, Dimpled o'er with smiles. And the while that bonny bird did pour In the little childish heart below, |