Thou speak'st of the distant-the lost-the dear; Thine azure is dimmed by a grief-fraught tear;

Yet I will not be sad, for thou tellest to me

Of returning Spring and returning glee.

THE MAY MORN BOUQUET.

Come, let us goe, while we are in our prime,
And take the harmless follie of the time.
There's not a budding boy or girle, this day,
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
A deale of youth, ere this, is come
Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
Some have dispacht their cakes and creame,

Before that we have left to dreame;

And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth;

Many a green gown has been given,
Many a kisse, both odde and even;

Many a glance too has been sent,

From out the eye, Love's firmament.

Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,

Come, my Corinna, come, let's goe a Maying.

ROBERT HERRICK.

DORA alone.

OH! the morn is bright, the sky is blue,

The sun is shining cheery;

And the may-pole's dressed-but where are you

My Lubin-where's my dearie?

I've put on all my finest things,

(This kerchief looks so natty!) My ears have now as handsome rings

As those Will bought for Patty.

I wonder who'll be chosen queen,

I know who'd like to play it; There's none so tall as me, I ween, Nor prettier tho' I say it.

And Lubin always says I tread

As stately as a Venus,

When I've one milk-pail on my head,

And another's held between us.

[Enter LUBIN, &c.

'Long looked for, come at last,' they say―

I've wanted you for hours;

And now you have not a bouquét!

Here, take some garden-flowers.

LUBIN.

No, Dora, none of these for me,
To you I'll leave the rose,

And violets too-for both, I see,
Your cheek and eye disclose.

And Marion may mate her pale
And fair face with the lily;
And jealous Nancy cannot fail
To choose the daffodilly.

The honeysuckle give to Kate,

So kindly and caressing;

Whoever wins her for a mate,

Will win both wealth and blessing.

Narcissus take to Roland Hay,

The dandy of our village;
Whose Sunday suit walks every day,
Far from his farm and tillage.

Yon bramble fling to Rachel Rann,
So crabby and so spiteful;
The mignionette's for little Fan,

Both darlings-they're delightful.

Sweet William flies to blushing Sue,
For oh! she loves him dearly;

The scarlet poppy, Meg, to you,

Your lip's as red, or nearly.

The

green is swept the fiddler's come,

And lads to lasses glancing

(While flourishes sound on the drum),

Are eager to be dancing.

And Lubin now, without remorse,

His bright blue vest's adorning With a gay bunch of yellow GORSE; While all the maids are scorning

Such "

trumpery and queer" bouquet,

"Till Lubin begged they'd hear him In its defence:-and soon the gay

Young faces gather'd near him.

LUBIN'S SONG.

FAIR maidens, I'll sing you a song;

I'll tell you the bonny wild flower,

Whose blossoms so yellow, and branches so long,
O'er moor and o'er rough rocky mountain are flung,
Far away from trim garden and bower.

It clings to the crag, and it clothes the wild hill;
It stands sturdily breasting the storm,

When the loud-voiced winds sing so drearily shrill,
And the snow-flakes in eddies fall silent and still,
And the shepherd can scarce wrap him warm.

'Tis the bonny bright GORSE, that gleams cheerily forth, Like sunlight e'er lingering here,

In the verdure of Spring, and when Summer on earth Has called all the fairest of blossoms to birth,

As a crown for the noon of the year.

When "the fall of the leaf" in the forest is heard,
And the naked boughs stretch through the air;
And when rustling under each foot that is stirred,
The crisp leaves are crushing;-and when the coy bird
At your door pecks the crumbs scatter'd there.