THE PRIMROSE.

WELCOME, pale primrose! starting up between Dead matted leaves of ash and oak, that strew The every lawn, the wood, and spinny through, Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green;

How much thy presence beautifies the ground! How sweet thy modest, unaffected pride Glows on the sunny bank, and wood's warm side! And where thy fairy flowers in groups are found, The school-boy roams enchantedly along,

Plucking the fairest with a rude delight; While the meek shepherd stops his simple song To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight; O'erjoyed to see the flowers that truly bring The welcome news of sweet returning Spring.

John Clare.

SONG: ON MAY MORNING.

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire!
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

John Milton.

SONG TO MAY.

21

SONG TO MAY.

MAY! queen of blossoms,
And fulfilling flowers,
With what pretty music

Shall we charm the hours?
Wilt thou have pipe and reed,
Blown in the open mead?
Or to the lute give heed
In the green bowers?

Thou hast no need of us,
Or pipe or wire,
That hast the golden bee
Ripened with fire;
And many thousand more
Songsters, that thee adore,
Filling earth's grassy floor
With new desire.

Thou hast thy mighty herds,
Tame, and free livers;
Doubt not, thy music too

In the deep rivers;

And the whole plumy flight,

Warbling the day and night—
Up at the gates of light,
See, the lark quivers!

When with the jacinth

Coy fountains are tressed;

And for the mournful bird
Greenwoods are dressed,
That did for Tereus pine;
Then shall our songs be thine,
To whom our hearts incline:

May, be thou blessed!

Lord Thurlow.

THE QUEEN OF THE MAY.

HERE's a bank with rich cowslips and cuckoo-buds strewn,

To exalt your bright looks, gentle Queen of the May! Here's a cushion of moss for your delicate shoon,

And a woodbine to weave you a canopy gay.

Here's a garland of red maiden-roses for you—
Such a delicate wreath is for beauty alone;
Here's a golden king-cup, brimming over with dew,
To be kissed by a lip just as sweet as its own.

Here are bracelets of pearl from the fount in the dale, That the nymph of the wave on your wrists doth be

stow;

Here's a lily-wrought scarf your sweet blushes to hide, Or to lie on that bosom, like snow upon snow.

Here's a myrtle enwreathed with a jessamine band,
To express the fond twining of beauty and youth;
Take this emblem of love in thy exquisite hand,

And do thou sway the evergreen sceptre of Truth.