The Evening Wind

Nor I alone,-a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And languishing to hear thy welcome sound,
Lies the vast inland, stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,—
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth! 16

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest;

Curl the still waters, bright with stars; and

rouse

The wide old wood from his majestic rest,

Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast. Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass.

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Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly śway
The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone,
That they who near the churchyard willows stray,
And listen in the deepening gloom, alone,
May think of gentle souls who passed away,

Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown; Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men, And gone into the boundless heaven again.

The faint old man shall lean his silver head
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,

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And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep;

And they who stand about the sick man's bed,
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

Go-but the circle of eternal change,

Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and sense from all thy mighty

range,

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Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more; Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore; And, listening to the murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 48 1830. William Cullen Bryant.

THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE

BURN

THE midges dance aboon the burn;
The dews begin to fa';

The pairtricks down the rushy holm

Set up their e'ening ca'.

Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang

Rings through the briery shaw,

While, flitting gay, the swallows play
Around the castle wa'.

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Flowers

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky
The mavis mends her lay;

The redbreast pours his sweetest strains
To charm the lingering day;

While weary yeldrins seem to wail
Their little nestlings torn,
The merry wren, frae den to den,
Gaes jinking through the thorn.

The roses fauld their silken leaves,
The foxglove shuts its bell;
The honeysuckle and the birk
Spread fragrance through the dell.
Let others crowd the giddy court

Of mirth and revelry,

The simple joys that nature yields
Are dearer far to me.

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1807?

Robert Tannahill.

FLOWERS

I WILL not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turned by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly quean,
Whom, therefore, I will shun:
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun;-
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of every one.

The pea is but a wanton witch,
In too much haste to wed,

And clasps her rings on every hand;
The wolfsbane I should dread;
Nor will I dreary rosemarye,

That always mourns the dead;
But I will woo the dainty rose,

With her cheeks of tender red.

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The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And so is no mate for me;

And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush,
She is of such low degree;

Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,

And the broom 's betrothed to the bee;But I will plight with the dainty rose,

For fairest of all is she.

1827.

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Thomas Hood.

SONG

A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers:
To himself he talks;

For at eventide, listening earnestly,

At his work you may hear him sob and sigh
In the walks;

Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks

Of the mouldering flowers:

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
Over its grave i' the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

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The Throstle

The air is damp, and hush'd, and close,
As a sick man's room when he taketh repose

An hour before death;

My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, And the breath

Of the fading edges of box beneath,

And the year's last rose.

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
Over its grave i' the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,

1830.

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

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Lord Tennyson.

THE THROSTLE

"SUMMER is coming, summer is coming.

I know it, I know it, I know it.

Light again, leaf again, life again, love again," Yes, my wild little Poet.

Sing the new year in under the blue.

Last year you sang it as gladly.

"New, new, new, new!" Is it then so new

That you should carol so madly?

“Love again, song again, nest again, young again,"

Never a prophet so crazy!

And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend,

See, there is hardly a daisy.

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