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A hundred thousand times I call
A hearty welcome on ye all;
This season how I love —
This merry din on every shore —
For winds and storms, whose sullen roar
Forbade my steps to rove.
PIERRE RoNSARD (French).
Shall we have, for laughter
Freely shouted to the woods, till all the echoes ring.
Send the children up
To the high hill's top,
Or deep into the wood's recesses,
To woo spring's caresses.
See, the birds together,
In this splendid weather,
Worship God (for he is God of birds as well as
And each feathered neighbor
Enters on his labor, –
Sparrow, robin, redpole, finch, the linnet, and the
As the year advances,
Trees their naked branches
Clothe, and seek your pleasure in their green ap-
Insect and wild beast
Keep no Lent, but feast;
Spring breathes upon the earth, and their joy's
And the rejoicing birds break forth in one loud
Ah, come and woo the spring;
List to the birds that sing;
Pluck the primroses; pluck the violets:
Pluck the daisies,
Sing their praises;
Friendship with the flowers some noble thought
Come forth and gather these sweet elves,
(More witching are they than the fays of old,)
Come forth and gather them yourselves;
Learn of these gentle flowers whose worth is more
Come, come into the wood;
Pierce into the bowers
Of these gentle slowers,
Which, not in solitude
Dwell, but with each other keep society:
And with a simple piety,
Are ready to be woven into garlands for the good.
Or, upon summer earth,
To die, in virgin worth ;.
Or to be strewn before the bride,
And the bridegroom, by her side.
Come forth on Sundays;
Come forth on Mondays;
Come forth on any day;
Children, come forth to play : —
Worship the God of Nature in your childhood:
Worship him at your tasks with best endeavor;
Worship him in your sports; worship him ever;
AGAIN the violet of our early days
Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun,
And kindles into fragrance at his blaze;
The streams, rejoiced that winter's work is done,
Talk of to-morrow's cowslips, as they run.
Wild apple, thou art blushing into bloom
Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossomed thorn'
Wake, buried lily spirit, quit thy tomb :
And thou shade-loving hyacinth, be born
Then, haste, sweet rose ! sweetwoodbine, hymn
Whose dewdrops shall illume with pearly light
Each grassy blade that thick embattled stands
From sea to sea, while daisies infinite
Uplift in praise their little glowing hands,
O'er every hill that under heaven expands.
Eager to taste the honeyed spring And float amid the liquid noon : Some lightly o'er the current skin, Some show their gayly gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun.
To Contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of man ;
And they that creep, and they that fly
Shall end where they began.
Alike the busy and the gay
But flutter through life's little day,
Ih Fortune's varying colors drest :
Brushed by the hand of rough mischance
Or chilled by age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear in accents low
The sportive kind reply:
Poor moralist and what art thou ?
A solitary fly
Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display;
On hasty wings thy youth is flown ;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone, –
We frolic while 'tis May.
Sweetly breathing, vernal air,
That with kind warmth doth repair
Winter's ruins ; from whose breast
All the gums and spice of the East
Borrow their perfumes; whose eye
Gilds the morn, and clears the sky;
Whose dishevelled tresses shed
Pearls upon the violet bed;
On whose brow, with calm smiles drest
The halcyon sits and builds her nest;
Beauty, youth, and endless spring
Dwell upon thy rosy wing !
Thou, if stormy Boreas throws
Down whole forests when he blows,
With a pregnant, flowery birth,
Canst refresh the teeming earth.
If he nip the early bud,
If he blast what's fair or good,
If he scatter our choice flowers,
If he shake our halls or bowers,
If his rude breath threaten us,
Thou canst stroke great Æolus,
And from him the grace obtain,
To bind him in an iron chain. |
Behold the young, the rosy Spring
Gives to the breeze her scented wing,
While virgin graces, warm with May,
Fling roses o'er her dewy way.
The murmuring billows of the deep
Have languished into silent sleep;
And mark the slitting sea-birds lave
Their plumes in the reflecting wave;
While cranes from hoary winter fly
To flutter in a kinder sky.
Now the genial star of day
Dissolves the murky clouds away,
And cultured field and winding stream
Are freshly glittering in his beam.
Now the earth prolific swells
With leafy buds and flowery bells;
Gemming shoots the olive twine;
Clusters bright festoon the vine;
All along the branches creeping,
Through the velvet foliage peeping,
Little infant fruits we see
Nursing into luxury.
ANACREoN (Greek). Translation
of THOMAS MooRE.