IV.

1ST OF APRIL, 1845.

SWEET month of Venus, meekly thus begun,
Too pensive for a day of antique folly,
In yellow garb of quiet melancholy
Thy patient pastures sleep beside the sun;
And if a primrose peep, there is but one
Where wont the starry crowd to look so jolly.
Alone, amid the wood, the Christmas holly

Gleams on the bank with streaming rain fordone,
And yet the snowdrop and the daffodils

Have done their duty to the almanack.

And though the garden mould is blank and black,
With bloom and scent the gay mezereon fills
The longing sense; and plants of other climes
In the warm greenhouse tell of better times.

V.

MAY, 1840.

A LOVELY morn, so still, so very still,

It hardly seems a growing day of Spring, Though all the odorous buds are blossoming, And the small matin birds were glad and shrill Some hours ago; but now the woodland rill Murmurs along, the only vocal thing,

Save when the wee wren flits with stealthy wing, And cons by fits and bits her evening trill. Lovers might sit on such a morn as this

An hour together, looking at the sky,

Nor dare to break the silence with a kiss,
Long listening for the signal of a sigh;

And the sweet Nun, diffused in voiceless prayer,
Feel her own soul through all the brooding air.

F

VOL. II.

t

VI.

MAY MORNING.

IN days of yore, while yet the world was young,
Fair nymphs arose to grace the morn of May,
And ere the East had doffed the pearly grey,
Went forth to catch the jewell'd drops that hung
On the fresh virgin leaves the woods among;
And many a delicate foot-mark might be seen,
Tinting the silvery lawn with darker green;
And many a bird, untimely waked, upsprung,
Scattering the maythorn's white. O lovely season,
Where art thou gone? Methinks the cold neglect
Of thy old rites, perchance may be the reason
Thou wilt not punctual keep thy wonted time,
But, angry at our slothful disrespect,

Carest not to quit some duteous happier clime.

VII.

MAY 25TH, 1840.

How strange the cold ungenial atmosphere,
Beneath the cover of so bright a sky!

Each way-side flower hath oped its little eye;
The very coyest birds of all the year

Have ventured forth to see if all be clear.

Full-leaved the pendant birches droop and sigh;
The oak is clothed in vernal majesty ;
White-chaliced lilies float upon the mere.

The very warmth that made this world of beauty
Is summon'd to another tract of duty,

And leaves a substitute so stern and cold,
We half regret old winter's honest rule,
The roaring chimney and the log of yule:
May hath such airs as May had not of old.

VIII.

TO DORA QUILLINAN.

WELL, this is really like the poet's May,
The merry May of which we used to hear,
Big with the promise of the coming year!

The apple-trees their rosy bloom display,

The flowerets, many-hued, that line the way,

Long-soak'd with rain, and chill'd with whistling blast, Look happy now, like maidens, that at last

Are to be wedded, after long delay.

Oh! that the joy, the fragrance, and the bloom,
That bid all life and even poor man be glad,

Might waft a breath of comfort to the room
Where she lies smitten, yet not wholly sad,
Waiting with frame immortal to be clad,
In patient expectation of her doom!