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And feed the flowering osier's early shoots ;
And call those winds which through the whispering boughs

With warm and pleasant breath
Salute the blowing flowers.

Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn,
And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale;

And watch with patient eye,
Thy fair, unfolding charms.

O nymph, approach! while yet the temperate sun
With bashful forehead through the cold, moist air,

Throws his young maiden beams,
And with chaste kisses woos

The earth's fair bosom; while the streaming vail
Of lucid clouds, with kind and frequent shade

Protects thy modest blooms
From his severer blaze.

Sweet is thy reign, but short; the red dog-star
Shall scorch thy tresses; and the mower's scythe

Thy greens, thy flowerets all,
Remorseless shall destroy,

Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell ;
For 0, not all that Autumn's lap contains

Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits
Can aught for thee atone,

Fair Spring! whose simplest promise more delights
Than all their largest wealth, and through the heart

Each joy and new-born hope
With softest influence breathes.

ANNE LETITIA BARBAULD, 1743-1925.

THE FLOWER.

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean

Are thy returns ! ev'n as the flow'rs in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late past frost's tributes of pleasure bring :

Grief melts away,

Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.

Who would have thought my shrivel'd heart

Could have recover'd greenness? It was gone
Quite under ground, as flowers depart
To see their mother-root, when they have blown;

Where they together,

All the hard weather,
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.
These are thy wonders, Lord of power!

Thrilling and quick’ning, bringing down to hell,
And up to heaven in an hour;
Making a chiming of a passing bell.

We say amiss,

This or that is:
Thy word is all, if we would spell.
Oh, that I once past changing were

Fast in thy Paradise, where no flow'r can wither!
Many a spring I shot up fair,
Offering at heav'n, growing and groaning thither :

Nor doth my flower

Want a spring-shower,
My sins and I joining together.
But while I grow in a straight line,

Still upward bent, as if heav'n were mine own,
Thy anger comes, and I decline :
What frost to that? What pole is not the zone,

Where all things burn,

When thou dost turn,
And the least frown of thine is shown?

And now in age I bud again;

After so many deaths I live and write,
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing. O, my only light,

It can not be,

That I am he,
On whom thy tempests fell all night!
These are thy wonders, Lord of love!

To make us see we are but flow’rs that glide;
Which, when we once can find and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide.

Who would be more,

Swelling through store,
Forfeit their Paradise by their pride,

GEORGE HERBERT, 1593-139. ODE.

FROM THE TURKISH.

Hear! how the nightingales on every spray,
Hail, in wild notes, the sweet return of May:
The gale, that o'er yon waving almond blows,
The verdant bank with silver blossoms strews;
The smiling season decks each flowery glade.
Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

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What gales of fragrance scent the vernal air!
Hills, dales, and woods their loveliest mantles wear
Who knows what cares await that fatal day,
When ruder guests shall banish gentle May?
E'en death, perbaps, our valleys will invade.
Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

The tulip now its varied hue displays,
And sheds, like Ahmed's eye, celestial rays.
Ah! nature, ever faithful, ever true,
The joys of youth, while May invites, pursue !
Will not these notes your timorous minds persuade?
Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

The sparkling dew-drops o'er the lilies play,
Like orient pearls, or like the beams of day.
If love and mirth your idle thoughts engage,
Attend, ye nymphs! a poet's words are sage.
While thus you sit beneath the trembling shade,
Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

The fresh-blown rose, like Zeineb's cheek appears, When pearls, like dew-drops, glitter in her ears. The charms of youth at once are seen and past, And Nature says,

They are too sweet to last.” So blooms the rose, and so the blushing maidBe gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade !

See! yon anemones their leaves unfold,
With rubies gleaming, and with living gold:
While crystal showers from weeping clouds descend,
Enjoy the presence of thy tuneful friend :
Now, while the wines are brought, the sofa's laid,
Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade !

The plants no more are dried, the meadow dead:
No more the rose-bud hangs her pensive head;
The shrubs revive in valleys, mead, and bowers,
And every stalk is garland'd with flowers;
In silken robes each hillock stands arrayed-
Be gay : too soon the flowers of spring will fade !
Clear drops, each morn, impearl the rose's bloom,
And from its leaf the zephyr drinks perfume;
The dewy buds expand their lucid store:
Be this our wealth; ye damsels ask no more,
Though wise men envy, and though fools upbraid,
Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade !
The dew-drops sprinkled by the musky gale,
Are changed to essence ere they reach the dale;
The mild, blue sky a rich pavilion sprends,
Without our labor, o'er our favor'd heads.
Let others toil in war, in arts, in trade-
Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!
Late gloomy winter chilled the sullen air,
Till Soliman arose, and all was fair.
Soft in his reign, the notes of love resound,
And pleasure's rosy cup goes freely round.
Here on the bank which mantling vines o'ershade,
Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade !
May this rude lay, from age to age remain,
A true memorial of this lovely train.
Come, charming maid, and hear thy poet sing,
Thyself the rose, and he the bird of spring;
Love bids him sing, and love will be obey d.

Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade !
Tirnslation of Sir WILIAM JONES.

From the Turkish of Mestu.

TO SPRING.

Alas. delicious Spring! God sends thee down
To breathe upon his cold and perish'd works
Beauteous revival; earth should welcome thee-
Thee and the west wind, thy smooth paramour,
With the soft laughter of her flowery meads;
Her joys, her melodies, the prancing stag
Flutters the shivering fern; the steed shakes out
His mane, the dewy herbage, silver-webb’d,

With frank step trampling; the wild goat looks down
From his empurpling bed of heath, ere break
The waters deep and blue, with crystal gleams
Of their quick-leaping people; the fresh lark
Is in the morning sky; the nightingale
Tunes evensong to the dropping waterfall.
Creation lives with loveliness—all melts
And trembles into one mild harmony.

H. MILMAN.

TO SPRING.

FROM THE DANISH.

Thy beams are sweet, beloved spring !

The winter-shades before thee fly;
The bough smiles green, the young birds sing,

The chainless current glistens by,
Till countless flowers like stars illume
The deepening vale and forest gloom.

O welcome, gentle guest from high,

Sent to cheer our world below,
To lighten sorrow's faded eye,

To kindle nature's social glow!
0, he is o'er his fellows blest
Who feels thee in a guiltless breast !

Peace to the generous heart essaying

With deeds of love to win our praise !
He smiles, the spring of life surveying,

Nor fears her cold and wintry days :
To his high goal with triumph bright
The calm years waft him in their flight.

Thou glorious goal, that shin'st afar,

And seem'st to smile us on our way,
Bright is the hope that crowns our war,

The dawn-blush of eternal day;
There shall we meet, this dark world o'er,

And mix in love for evermore.
Translation of W. S. WALKER.

Thomas THAARUP, 1749-1:21.

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