The Wood Lane in Spring.

I KNOW a lane thick set with golden broom,
Where the pale primrose and tall orchis bloom;
And azure violets, lowly drooping, shed
Delicious perfume round their mossy bed;
And all the first-born blossoms of the year
That spring uncultured, bud and blossom here.
Oh! 'tis a lovely spot! high overhead
Gigantic oaks their lofty branches spread;
The glossy ivy, the rich eglantine,

The rambling briony, and sweet woodbine,
Fling their fantastic wreaths from spray to spray,
And shower their treasures in the lap of May.
Here the blithe blackbird trills his matin song
Till woodland dells his bugle-notes prolong;
And the gay linnet and the airy thrush
Responsive whistle from the hawthorn bush;
Near, though unseen, the lonely cuckoo floats,
And wakes the morn with his complaining notes;
Here the shy partridge leads her yellow brood,
And the majestic pheasant from the wood
No longer dreads the cruel fowler's gun,
But sports his gorgeous plumage in the sun.
Tis passing sweet to rove these woodland bowers,
When the young sun has shed on leaves and flowers
A tender glory, and the balmy thorn

Spreads his white banner to the breath of morn—
Sporting a coronal of living light,

Strung from the dewdrops of the weeping night.
'Tis sweet to trace the footsteps of the spring
O'er the green earth-to see her lightly fling
Her flowery wreaths on Nature's breathing shrine,
And round the hoary woods her garlands twine;
To hear her voice in every passing breeze
That stirs the new-born foliage on the trees.
'Tis sweet to hear the songs of birds arise
At early dawn-to gaze on cloudless skies-
To scatter round you, as you lightly pass,
A shower of diamonds from each blade of grass;
And while your footsteps press the dewy sod,
"To look through Nature up to Nature's God."

MARY HOWITT,

Song on Spring Morn.
THE year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;

The hill-side's dew-pearl'd.
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in his heaven-

All's right with the world!

Spring and Summer.

GRACEFULLY, gleefully, trippingly go

BROWNING.

O'er the bright mountains the fawn and the roe;
Joyfully, tunefully, lovingly sing

All the sweet birds in the ear of the spring.
Hopefully, carefully, joyfully she

Scatters her smiles o'er the mountains and lea.
Summer descends like a Bridegroom, whose glow
Crimsons the blossoms the spring bade to blow;
Spring is his bride, and she sits at his feet,
Veil'd in his glory, but ruling him sweet.

Summer.

THEN came the jolly Summer, being dight
In a thin silken cassock colour'd greene,
That was unlynéd all, to be more light:

HARRIS.

And on his head a girlond well beseene
He wore, from which as he had chauffed been
The sweat did drop; and in his hand he bore,
A bowe and shaftes, as he in forrest greene

Had hunted late the Libbard or the Bore,

And now would bathe his limbs with labor heated sore.

SPENSER.

Summer-Early Morning.

'Tis morn, but yet the full and cloudless moon
Pours from her starry urn a chasten'd light ;

'Tis but a little space beyond the noon-
The still, delicious noon of summer's night;

Forth from my home I take an early flight, Down the lone vale pursue my devious way, Bound o'er the meadows with a keen delight, Brush from the forest leaves the dewy spray, And scale the toilsome steep, to watch the kindling day. The lark is up disdainful of the earth, Exulting in his airy realm on high; His song, profuse in melody and mirth, Makes vocal all the region of the sky; The moor-cock, startled with a sudden cry, Springs from beneath my feet; and, as I pass, The sheep regard me with an earnest eye, Ceasing to nibble at the scanty grass,

And scour the barren waste in one tumultuous mass.

But lo, the stars are waning, and the dawn

Blushes and burns athwart the east ;-behold,

The early sun, behind the upland lawn,

Looks o'er the summit with a front of gold;
Back from his beaming brow the mists are roll'd,
And as he climbs the crystal tower of morn,

Rocks, woods, and glens their shadowy depths unfold;
The trembling dews grow brighter on the thorn,
And Nature smiles as fresh as if but newly born.

God of the boundless universe! I come

To hold communion with myself and Thee!
And though excess of beauty makes me dumb,
My thoughts are eloquent with all I see;
My foot is on the mountains-I am free,
And buoyant as the winds that round me blow,
My dreams are sunny as yon pleasant lea,
And tranquil as the pool that sleeps below;
While, circling round my heart, a poet's raptures glow.
Oh, glorious summer! what a sight is here,

To wean the heart from selfishness and care!
Where the vast prospect, bright, distinct, and clear,
Looks up in silence through the stainless air:
The moorlands are behind me, bleak and bare,

A rude and trackless wilderness of land;

Beneath me lie the vales, calm, rich, and fair, With Alpine summits rising on each hand;

And stretching far before, the peopled plains expand.

PRINCE.

A Summer Day.

Ir is a sultry day; the sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass;
There is no rustling in the lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing. The plants around
Feel the too potent fervours; the tall maize
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods silent and stern,
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven-
Their bases on the mountains-their white tops
Shining in the far ether-fire the air
With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays its coming. Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?
Oh come and breathe upon the fainting earth
Coolness and life. Is it that in the caves
He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,
The pine is bending his proud top, and now
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak
Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes!
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves !
The deep distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumber'd sounds
And universal motion. He is come,
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds and rustling of young boughs,
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring on his breath: a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and borders of the brook,

Nod gaily to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.

Summer Noon.

BRYANT.

THE mid-day hour of twelve the clock counts o'er,
A sultry stillness lulls the air asleep;
The very buzz of flies is heard no more,

Nor faintest wrinkles o'er the waters creep.
Like one large sheet of glass the waters shine,
Reflecting on their face the hot sunbeam :
The very fish their sportive play decline,
Seeking the willow-shadows 'side the stream.
And, where the hawthorn branches o'er the pool,
The little bird, forsaking song and nest,
Flutters on dripping twigs his limbs to cool,
And splashes in the stream his burning breast.
Oh, free from thunder, for a sudden shower,
To cherish nature in this noon-day hour!

CLARE.

How sweet at Summer's Noon to sit and Muse.
How sweet, at summer's noon, to sit and muse
Beneath the shadow of some ancient elm !
While at my feet the mazy streamlet flows
In tuneful lapse, laving the flowers that bend
To kiss its tide; while sport the finny throng
On the smooth surface of the crystal depths
In silvery circlets, or in shallows leap,
That sparkle to the sunbeam's trembling glare.
Around the tiny jets, where humid bells
Break as they form, the water-spiders weave,
Brisk on the eddying pools, their ceaseless dance.
The wild-bee winds her horn, lost in the cups
Of honey'd flowers, or sweeps with ample curve;
While o'er the summer's lap is heard the hum
Of countless insects sporting on the wing,
Inviting sleep. And from the leafy woods
One varying song of bursting joy ascends.

GILLESPIE.