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And the very colour's tone,
Russet now, and fervid grown :
All a voice, as if it spoke
Of the brown wood's cottage smoke,
And the sun, and bright green oak.
O come quickly, show thee soon,
Come at once with all thy noon,
Manly, joyous, gipsey June.

May, the jade, with her fresh cheek,
And the love the bards bespeak,
May, by coming first in sight,
Half defrauds thee of thy right;
For her best is shared by thee
With a wealthier potency,
So that thou dost bring us in
A sort of May-time masculine,
Fit for action or for rest,
As the luxury seems the best
Bearding now the morning breeze,
Or in love with paths of trees,
Or dispos'd, full leugth, to lie
With a hand-enshaded eye
On thy warm and golden slopes,
Basker in the butter-cups,
Listening with nice distant ears
To the shepherd's clapping shears,
Or the next field's laughing play
In the happy wars of hay,
While its perfume breathes all over,
Or the bean comes fine, or clover.

O could I walk round the earth,
With a heart to share my mirth,
With a look to love me ever,
Thoughtful much, but sullen never,
I could be content to see
June and no variety,
Loitering here, and living there,
With a book and frugal fare,
With a finer gipsey time,
And a cuckoo in the clime,
Work at morn, and mirth at noon,
And sleep beneath the sacred moon.

TO THE SKYLARK.

PROCTOR.

O EARLIEST singer! O care-charming bird I

Married to morning by a sweeter hymn

Than priest e'er chaunted from his cloister dim At midnight; or veil'd virgin's holier word, At sun-rise, or the paler evening heard ;

To which of all heaven's young and lovely hours,

That wreathe soft light in hyacinthine bowers, Beautiful spirit, is thy suit preferr'd?

Unlike the creatures of this low dull earth,

Still dost thou woo although thy suit be won ; And thus thy mistress bright is pleased ever.

Oh! lose not thou this mark of finer birth;

So may'st thou yet live on from sun to sun, Thy joy uncheck'd, thy sweet song silent never.

I AM COME BACK TO MY BOWER.

MISS JEWSBURY.

O'tis the heart that magnifies this life,
Making a truth and beauty of her own.

Wordsworth.

I AM come back to my bower,

But it is not as of yore,
Withered every glowing flower,

And the leaves are green no more;
Winter winds are sighing

Where summer breezes strayed ;
Winter mists are lying

Where the sunbeams played ;
Hope, the sprite that gladdens,

Flees upon the blast,
Memory, that but saddens,

Lingers to the last :-
Telling of the roses,

Telling of the joys,
That life in spring discloses,

Its waning time destroys.

I am come back to my bower,

'Tis precious as of yore,
Though withered every flower,

And the leaves are green no more;
Though mute the lark and linnet,

And still the humming beę,
Affection dwells within it,

A summer world to me;

Though leaf and blossom perish,

And zephyrs pass away,
The glory that I cherish

Will never so decay ;-
HEARTS, to whom no weather

Change or blight can bring,
These love on together,

In winter as in spring.

DIRGE.

W. HOWITT.

Chorus of Youths.

SISTÉR, thou art fled !
Sister, in a goodly time,
Thou hast sought a better clime;
Ere thy evil days were come,

Thou hast hastened home.

Sister, blest art thou ! Blest are they who take their flight, While life's dews yet sparkle bright, While the bloom is on the tree,

Blest who pass like thee !

Happy, happy doom! Loved below, desired above ; In life, in death enshrined in love : Bright on earth, and brighter where

Every soul is fair.

Sister, sister, joy!
On the wings of youth upborne,
Through the regions of the morn;
Gladness, glory go with thee,

To eternity!

Chorus of Old Men.

Daughter, thou art fled ;
But we linger, faint and old,
Till the bright earth waxeth cold ;
Till the dew is all exhaled !

Till the bloom hath failed.

Daughter, blest art thou ! Where the earth's first bright ones trod, There we find the burial sod: The dwellings of the patriarchs stand

In a desert land !

Happy is thy doom 1
Ours is, bere to stand and mark
How the lights of life grow dark ;
How the loved ones drop away-

And feel the soul decay.

Daughter, daughter, joy!
None of all these ills are thine,
Thou shalt not in tears repine ;
Spent in frame, and spent in heart,

And unwept depart!

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