LOVE launch'd a gallant little craft,
Complete with every rope;
In golden words was painted aft
"The Cupid, Captain Hope."
Pleasure was rated second-mate,
And Passion made to steer;
The guns were handed o'er to Fate,
To Impulse sailing-gear.
Merrily roved the thoughtless crew
Amidst the billows' strife;
But soon a sail bore down,-all knew
'Twas Captain Reason's "Life."
And Pleasure left, though Passion said
He'd guard her safe from all harms.
"Twas vain; for Fate ramm'd home the lead,
While Love prepared the small arms.
A storm arose ! The canvass now
Escaped from Impulse' hand,
While headstrong Passion dash'd the prow
Swift on a rocky strand.
"All's lost!" each trembling sailor cried; "Bid Captain Hope adieu!"
But in his life-boat Reason hied
To save the silly crew.
Impulse the torrents overwhelm,
But Pleasure 'scaped from wreck ;
Love, making Reason take the helm,
Chain'd Passion to the deck.
"I thought you were my foe; but now,"
Said Love," we'll sail together;
Reason, henceforth through life shalt thou
My pilot be for ever!"
MAY, thou month of rosy beauty, Month when pleasure is a duty; Month of maids that milk the kine,
Bosom rich, and breath divine;
Month of bees, and month of flowers,
Month of blossom-laden bowers;
Month of little hands with daisies,
Lovers' love, and poets' praises!
O thou merry month complete,
May, thy very name is sweet.
May was maid in olden times,
And is still in Scottish rhymes;
May's the blooming hawthorn bough,
May's the month that's laughing now.
I no sooner write the word,
Than it seems as though it heard,
And looks up and laughs at me,
Like a sweet face, rosily;
Like an actual colour bright,
Flushing from the paper's white;
Like a bride that knows her power,
Started in a summer bower.
If the rains who do us wrong,
Come to keep the winter long,
And deny us thy sweet looks,
I can love thee, sweet, in books;
Love thee in the poet's pages,
Where they keep thee green for ages;
Love and read thee, as a lover
Reads his lady's letters over,
Breathing blessings on the art,
Which commingles those that part.
There is a May in books for ever;
May will part from Spencer never;
May's in Milton, May's in Prior,
May's in Chaucer, Thompson, Dyer;
May's in all the Italian books;
She has old and modern nooks,
Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves
In happy places they call shelves,
And will rise, and dress your rooms
With a drapery thick with blooms.
Come, ye rains, then, if ye will, May's at home, and with me still : But come rather thou, good weather, And find us in the fields together.
HAPPY insect, what can be
In happiness, compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine,
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill :
'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
Thou dost drink and dance and sing
Happier than the happiest King.
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants belong to thee.
All the summer hours produce
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plow
Farmer he, and landlord thou.
Thou dost innocently joy;
Nor does thy luxury destroy.
The shepherd gladly heareth thee
More harmonious than he.
Thee, Country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year,
Phoebus is himself thy sire,
Thee, Phœbus loves, and doth inspire.
To thee, of all things upon
Life is no longer than thy mirth!
Happy insect! Happy thou
Dost neither age nor winter know;
But when thou'st danced and drunk and sung
Thy fill, the flow'ry leaves among,
(Voluptuous and wise withal
Epicurean animal)
Sated with thy summer feast
Thou retir'st to endless rest!
ETHERIAL Minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky!
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will;
Those quivering wings composed, that music still;
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