UNIV. OF Rural Odes for May. GRAY'S ODE ON THE SPRING. Lo! where the rosy-bosomed hours, The untaught harmony of Spring: While, whispering pleasures as they fly, Cold zephyrs through the clear blue sky Their gathered fragrance fling. Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch Beside some water's rushy brink With me the muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclined in rustic state), How vain the ardor of the crowd, How low, how little, are the proud, How indigent the great! Still is the toiling hand of Care; The panting herds repose; Yet hark, how through the peopled air The busy murmur glows! The insect youth are on the wing, And float amid the liquid noon : To Contemplation's sober eye And they that creep, and they that fly, Alike the busy and the gay In Fortune's varying colors dressed; Methinks I hear, in accents low, Poor moralist! and what art thou? Thy joy no glittering female meets, DAWES'S "SONG OF SPRING." 'Tis the season of tender delight,— The season of fresh-springing flowers; Fair nature is loud in her transport of pleasure, And scatters the blossoms while tilting the spray; One impulse of tenderness thrills through the groves, While the birds carol sweetly their innocent loves. How mild is the zephyr that blows! What fragrance his balmy wings bear- The stream flowing gently beside the green cresses Observe her inviting thee now, — PERCIVAL'S "REIGN OF MAY." I FEEL a newer life in every gale; And with their welcome breathings fill the sail, Of hours that glide unfelt away Beneath the sky of May. The spirit of the gentle south wind calls From his blue throne of air, And where his whispering voice in music falls, Beauty is budding there; The bright ones of the valley break Their slumbers and awake. The waving verdure rolls along the plain, To welcome back its playful mates again, And from its darkening shadow floats Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May; The tresses of the woods With the light dallying of the west wind play, And the full-brimming floods, As gladly to their goal they run, Hail the returning sun. MILTON'S "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. HOLMES'S "SPRING SCENE." WINTER is past; the heart of Nature warms Beneath the wreck of unresisted storms; Doubtful at first, suspected more than seen, The southern slopes are fringed with tender green; On sheltered banks, beneath the dripping eaves, Spring's earliest nurslings spread their glowing leaves, Bright with the hues from wider pictures won, TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK BY MOORE. BEHOLD the young, the rosy Spring, Now the earth prolific swells DRYDEN'S "EMILY A-MAYING.” THE young Emilia, fairer to be seen Than the fair lily on the flowery greenMore fresh than May herself in blossoms newFor with the rosy color strove her hue Waked, as her custom was, before the day, To do the observance due to sprightly May; For sprightly May commands our youth to keep The vigils of her nights, and breaks their sluggard sleep. Each gentle breath with kindly warmth she moves; Inspires new flames, revives extinguished loves. In this remembrance, Emily, ere day, Arose, and dressed herself in rich array; Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair, Adown her shoulders fell her length of hair; A ribbon did the braided tresses bind, The rest was loose, and wantoned in the wind. Aurora had but newly chased the night, And purpled o'er the sky with blushing light, When to the garden walk she took her way To sport and trip along in cool of day, And offer maiden vows in honor of the May. At every turn she made a little stand, And thrust among the thorns her lily hand, To draw the rose; and every rose she drew, She shook the stalk, and brushed away the dew; Then parti-colored flowers of white and red She wove, to make a garland for her head : This done, she sung and carolled out so clear, That men and angels might rejoice to hear: Our wondering Philomel forgot to sing, And learned from her to welcome in the Spring. My Peggy smiles sae kindly, That I look down on a' the town, - It makes me blyth and bauld; And naething gi'es me sic delight As wauking of the fauld. My Peggy sings sae saftly, When on my pipe I play. By a' the rest it is confest, By a' the rest, that she sings best. My Peggy sings sae saftly, And in her sangs are tauld, With innocence, the wale o' sense, At wauking of the fauld. This sunny morning, Roger, cheers my blood, And puts all nature in a jovial mood. How heartsome is 't to see the rising plants, To hear the birds chirm o'er their pleasing rants! ROGER. I'm born, O Patie! to a thrawart fate. I'm born to strive with hardships sad and great! Tempests may cease to jaw the rowan flood, Corbies and tods to grein for lambkins' blood, But I, opprest with never-ending grief, Maun ay despair of lighting on relief. PATIE. The bees shall loath the flower, and quit the hive, The saughs on boggie ground shall cease to thrive, Ere scornfu' queans, or loss of warldly gear, Shall spill my rest, or ever force a tear! ROGER. done Sae might I say; but it's no easy They dit their lugs, syne up their leglens cleek, ROGER. I wish I cou'dna looe her; - but in vain ; I still maun doat, and thole her proud disdain. PATIE. E'en do sae, Roger, wha can help misluck? Saebeins she be sic a thrawn-gabbit chuck, Yonder's a craig, since ye have tint all houp, Gae till 't your ways, and take the lover's lowp! ROGER. I needna mak sic speed my blood to spill; I'll warrant death come soon enough a-will. PATIE. Daft gowk! leave aff that silly whingin way, I trow, when that she saw, within a crack, Kind Patie, now fair fa' your honest heart, Ye're ay sae cadgy, and have sic an art To hearten ane! for now, as clean's a leek, Ye've cherished me since ye began to speak. Sae, for your pains, I'll make ye a propine (My mother, rest her saul! she made it fine); A tartan plaid, spun of good hawslock woo, Scarlet and green the sets, the borders blue : With spraings like gowd and siller crossed with black; I never had it yet upon my back. Weel are ye wordy o' 't, wha have sae kind Redd up my ravel'd doubts, and cleared my mind. PATIE. Weel, had ye there! And since ye 've frankly made To me a present of your braw new plaid, My flute's be yours; and she too that's sae nice Shall come a-will, gif ye 'll take my advice. ROGER. As ye advise, I'll promise to observ't; But ye maun keep the flute, ye best deserv't. Now tak it out, and gie's a bonny spring, For I'm in tift to hear you play and sing. PATIE. But first we'll take a turn up to the height, And see gif all our flocks be feeding right; Be that time bannocks, and a shave of cheese, Will make a breakfast that a laird might please; Gae farer up the burn to Habbie's How, Where a' the sweets of spring and simmer grow. Between twa birks, out o'er a little lin, The water fa's, and maks a singand din : A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass, Kisses with easy whirles the bordering grass. We'll end our washing while the morning's cool; And when the day grows het, we'll to the pool, There wash oursells; 't is healthfu' now in May, And sweetly cauler on sae warm a day. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end! A herd mair sheepish yet I never kenned. He kames his hair, indeed, and gaes right snug, With ribbon-knots at his blue bonnet lug; Whilk pensylie he wears a thought a-jee, And spreads his garters dic'd beneath his knee; He falds his owrelay down his breast with care, And few gangs trigger to the kirk or fair; For a' that, he can neither sing nor say, Except, 'How d' ye?'-or, 'There's a bonny day.' |