COME all ye virgins fair in kirtles white,
Ye debonair and merry-hearted maids,
Who have been out in troops before the light,
And gather'd blossoms in the woodland shades
The footprints of the fiery-sandall'd Day
Are glowing in the sky, like kindling coals,
The clouds are golden-rimm'd, like burning scrolls,
Jagged and fringed, and darkness melts away;
The shrine is wreathed with leaves; the holy urns,
Brimming with morning dew, are laid thereby;
The censers swing, the odorous incense burns,
And floats in misty volumes up the sky :
Lay down your garlands, and your baskets trim,
Heap'd up with floral offerings to the brim,
And knit your little hands and trip away
With light and nimble feet,
To music soft and sweet,
And celebrate the joyous break of day,
And sing a hymn to Flora, queen of May!
O Flora, sweetest Flora, goddess bright,
Impersonation of selectest things—
The soul and spirit of a thousand springs,
Bodied in all their loveliness and light-
A delicate creation of the mind,
Fashion'd in its divinest, daintiest mould,
In the bright age of gold,
Before the world was wholly lost and blind,
But saw and entertain'd with thankful heart
The gods as guests-O Flora, goddess dear,
Immaculate, immortal as thou art,
Thou wert a maiden once, like any here;
And thou didst tend thy flowers with proper care,
And shield them from the sun and chilly air;
Wetting thy little sandals through and through,
As all flower-maidens must, in morning dew;
Roving among the urns and mossy pots,
About the hedges and the garden plots;
Straightening and binding up the drooping stalks,
That kiss'd thy sweeping garments in the walks;
Setting thy dibble deep and sowing seeds,
And careful-handed, plucking out the weeds,
A simple flower-girl, and lowly born,
Till Zephyrus bore thee to the heavens away:
And thus it was-flying one pleasant morn
Behind the golden chariot of the Day,
Sighing amid the winged, laughing Hours,
In love with something bright which haunted him,
Sleeping on beds of flowers in arbours dim,
Breaking his tender heart with love extreme-
He saw thee on the earth, amid thy flowers,
Entranced with longings deep, he call'd the Air, And melting, bodiless, in the warm, sweet south, Twined his invisible fingers in thy hair,
And stooping, kiss'd thee with his odorous mouth, And chased thee, flying, in thy garden shades; And wooed, as men are wont to woo the maids, And won at last; and then flew back to heaven, Pleading with Jove till his consent was given, And thou wert made immortal-happy day!The goddess of the flowers and queen of May!
Oh what a sweet and pleasant life is thine,
On blue Olympus with the gods divine!
Thou hast thy gardens and a range of bowers,
And beds of asphodel, unfading flowers,
And many a leafy screen in arbours green,
Where thou dost lie and wile the hours away,
Lull'd by the drowsy sound of trees around,
And springs that fall in basins full of spray.
Sweet are thy duties and employments there:
Sometimes to wreathe imperial Juno's tresses,
And Cytherea's with her bosom bare,
Melting to meet the young Adon's caresses
When be lies in his death sleep stark and cold;
And oft with Hebe and with Ganymede,
(A pious, pleasant task, by Jove decreed)
Entwining chaplets round their cups of gold,
And round the necks of Dian's spotted fawns,
Like strings of bells, and Leda's snowy swans,
That floating sing in heaven's serenest streams,
Like thoughts of purity in poets' dreams;
And when red Mars, victorious from the field,
Throws down his shining spear and dinted shield,
And doffs his plumed helmet by his side,
And kneeling, bathes his forehead in the tide,
Thou dost a-sly with flowery fetters bind him,
And tie his arms behind him,
And smooth with playful hands his furrow'd cheek,
Until, beguiled and meek,
He kisses thee, and laughs with joy aloud!—
And when Minerva, lost in wisdom's cloud,
Muses abstracted in profoundest nooks,
Thou dost unclasp her ponderous tomes and books,
And press the leaves of flowers within their leaves,
And thou dost bind them up in Ceres' sheaves,
And wreathe Apollo's lyre and Hermes' rod-
And venturing near the cloud-compelling god,
Sitting with thought-concentred brows alone,
Bestrow the starry footstool of his throne!—
And sometimes thou dost steal to hades grim,
The shadowy realm of spirits, dark and dim,
And drowsing gloomy Pluto, hard and cold, [ers,
With slumb'rous poppies pluck'd from Lethe's bow-
Givest to Proserpine a bunch of flowers,
Such as she pluck'd in Sicily of old,
In Enna's meads, the solemn morn in May,
When she was stolen away:
Pressing it to her pallid lips in fear,
She kisses thee for that remembrance dear,
And then ye weep together-(soften'd so,
When Cytherea knelt down and plead with thee,
And Death was drugg'd, she let Adonis go,
And gave pale Orpheus Eurydicé);
And when the night is waning, thou dost soar,
And walk the Olympian palaces once more.
When clear-eyed Hesper folds the morning star,
And harnesses the wingéd steeds of Day,
And flush'd Aurora urges on her car,
Chasing the shadows of the night away,
Thou dost with Zephyrus fly in pomp behind,
Shaking thy scarf of rainbows on the wind;
And when the Orient is reach'd at last,
Thou dost unbar its gate of golden state,
And wait till she has past,
And soar again far up the dappled blue,
And wet the laughing Earth with freshest dewAs now thou dost, in pomp and triumph gay, This happy, happy day,
Thy festival, divinest queen of May!
O Flora, sweetest Flora, hear us now,
Gather'd to worship thee in shady bowers;
Accept the benediction and the vow
We offer thee, that thou hast spared the flowers!
The spring has been a cold, belated one-
Dark clouds, and showers, and a little sun,
And in the nipping mornings hoary frost;
We hoped, but fear'd the tender seeds were lost:
But, thanks to thee, at last they 'gan to grow,
Pushing their slender shoots above the ground,
In cultured gardens trim, and some were found
Beside the edges of the banks of snow,
Like Spring-thoughts in the heart of Winter old,
Or children laughing o'er a father's mould;
And now the sward is full, and teems with more ;
Earth never was so bounteous before!
Here are red roses throwing back their hoods,
Like willing maids to greet the kissing wind,
And here are violets from sombre woods,
With tears of dew within their lids enshrined; Lilies like little maids in bridal white,
Or in their burial-garments, if you will; And here is that bold flower the daffodil, That peers i' th' front of March; and daisies bright, The vestals of the morning; crocuses, Snowdrops like specks of foam on stormy seas; And yellow buttercups, that gem the fields Like studs of richest gold on massive shields; Anemonies, that sprang in golden years(The story goes, they were not seen before) Where young Adonis, tuskéd by the boar, Bled life away, and Venus rain'd her tears(Look! in their hearts a small ensanguined spot!) And here is pansy, and forget-me-not; And trim Narcissus, vain and foolish elf, Enamour'd (would you think it?) of himself, Rooted beside a crystal brook his glass; And drooping Hyacinthus, slain, alas! By rudest Auster, blowing in the stead Of Zephyrus, then in Flora's meshes bound; Pitching with bright Apollo in his ground, He blew the discus back and struck him dead!Pied wind-flowers, oxlips, and the jessamine; The sleepy poppy, and the eglantine; Primroses, Dian's flowers that ope at night; And here's that little sun, the marigold, And fringed pinks, and water-lilies, bright As floating Naiads in the river cold; Carnations, gilliflowers, and savoury rue, And rosemary, that loveth tears for dew, And many nameless flowers and pleasant weeds, That grow untended in the marshy meads, Where flags shoot up, and ragged grasses wave Perennial, when Autumn seeks her grave Among the wither'd leaves, and breezes blow A dirge, and Winter weaves a shroud of snow. Flowers! oh, what loveliness there is in flowers! What food for thought and fancy, rich and new! What shall we liken or compare them to?— Stars in this trodden firmament of ours;
Jewels and rare mosaics, dotting o'er
Creation's tessellated palace floor;
Or beauty's dials, marking with their leaves
The pomp and flight of golden morns and eves;
Illuminate missals, open on the meads,
Bending with rosaries of dewy beads;
Or characters inscribed on Nature's scrolls,
Or sweet-thoughts from the heart of Mother Earth,
Or wind-rock'd cradles, where the bees in rolls
Of odorous leaves, are wont to lie in mirth,
Full-hearted, murmuring the hours away,
Like little children busy at their play;
Or cups and beakers of the butterflies,
Brimming with nectar, or a string of bells,
Tolling unheard a requiem for the hours;
Or censers swinging incense to the skies;
Pavilions, tents, and towers,
The little fortresses of insect powers,
Winding their horns within; or magic cells
Where smallest fairies dream the time away;
Night-elfins, slumbering all a summer's day-
Sweet nurslings thou art wont to feed with dew
From out thy urns, replenish'd in the blue.
But this is idlesse all-away! away!
White-handed maids, and scatter buds around,
And let the lutes awake, and tabours sound,
And every heart its deep devotion pay.
Once more we thank thee, Flora, and once more
Perform our rites, as we were used to do;
Oh bless us, smile upon us, fair and true,
And watch the flowers till Summer's reign is o'er;
Preserve the seeds we sow in winter time
From burrowing moles, and blight, and icy rime;
And in their season cause the shoots to rise,
And make the dainty buds unseal their eyes-
And we will pluck the finest, and entwine
Chaplets, and lay them on thy rural shrine,
And sing our choral hymns, melodious, sweet,
And dance with nimble feet,
And worship thee, as now, serenely gay,
The goddess of the flowers and queen of May!
All hail, thou queen of May!
THE TWO BRIDES.
I SAW two maids at the kirk, And both were fair and sweet; One was in her bridal robe,
One in her winding-sheet. The choisters sang the hymn, The sacred rites were readAnd one for life to Life,
And one to Death, was wed! They went to their bridal beds In loveliness and bloom: One in a merry castle,
One in a solemn tomb. One to the world of sleep,
Lock'd in the arms of Love; And one in the arms of Death Pass'd to the heavens above. One to the morrow woke,
In a world of sin and pain; But the other was happier far, And never woke again!
POEMS BY VARIOUS AUTHORS.
DIRGE OF ALARIC, THE VISIGOTH,
Who stormed and spoiled the city of Rome, and was afterward buried in the channel of the river Busentius, the water of which had been diverted from its course that the body might be interred.
WHEN I am dead, no pageant train
Shall waste their sorrows at my bier,
Nor worthless pomp of homage vain
Stain it with hypocritic tear;
For I will die as I did live,
Nor take the boon I cannot give.
Ye shall not raise a marble bust
Upon the spot where I repose;
Ye shall not fawn before my dust,
In hollow circumstance of woes;
Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath,
Insult the clay that moulds beneath.
Ye shall not pile, with servile toil,
Your monuments upon my breast,
Nor yet within the common soil
Lay down the wreck of power to rest;
Where man can boast that he has trod
On him that was "the scourge of God."
But ye the mountain-stream shall turn,
And lay its secret channel bare,
And hollow, for your sovereign's urn,
A resting-place forever there:
Then bid its everlasting springs
Flow back upon the king of kings;
And never be the secret said,
Until the deep give up his dead.
My gold and silver ye shall fling
Back to the clods that gave them birth;
The captured crowns of many a king,
The ransom of a conquer'd earth:
For, e'en though dead, will I control
The trophies of the capitol.
But when beneath the mountain-tide
Ye've laid your monarch down to rot,
Ye shall not rear upon its side
Pillar or mound to mark the spot;
For long enough the world has shook
Beneath the terrors of my look;
And now that I have run my race,
The astonish'd realms shall rest a space.
My course was like a river deep,
And from the northern hills I burst,
Across the world in wrath to sweep,
And where I went the spot was cursed,
Nor blade of grass again was seen
Where ALARIC and his hosts had been.
See how their haughty barriers fail
Beneath the terrors of the Goth,
Their iron-breasted legions quail
Before my ruthless sabaoth,
And low the queen of empires kneels,
And grovels at my chariot-wheels.
Not for myself did I ascend
In judgment my triumphal car; "Twas God alone on high did send
The avenging Scythian to the war,
To shake abroad, with iron hand,
The appointed scourge of his command.
With iron hand that scourge I rear'd
O'er guilty king and guilty realm;
Destruction was the ship I steer'd,
And vengeance sat upon the helm, When, launch'd in fury on the flood, I plough'd my ways through seas of blood, And, in the stream their hearts had spilt, Wash'd out the long arrears of guilt.
Across the everlasting Alp
I pour'd the torrent of my powers, And feeble Cæsars shriek'd for help
In vain within their seven-hill'd towers;
I quench'd in blood the brightest gem
That glitter'd in their diadem,
And struck a darker, deeper dye
In the purple of their majesty;
And bade my northern banners shine
Upon the conquer'd Palatine.
My course is run, my errand done;
I go to Him from whence I came;
But never yet shall set the sun
Of glory that adorns my name;
And Roman hearts shall long be sick,
When men shall think of ALARIC.
My course is run, my errand done—
But darker ministers of fate,
Impatient, round the eternal throne,
And in the caves of vengeance wait;
And soon mankind shall blench away
Before the name of ATTILA.
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