VI.

The lilies of the valley though their sorrows are

not spoken,

Shake their little heads with sadness, and their hearts are well-nigh broken;

Every time the breezes murmur or a bird flies

quickly past,

They clap their hands exclaiming, "Tis the children

come at last!"

VII.

The sweetest of our singing birds at last is back

again,

From the purple skies and olive groves, and vines of southern Spain;

He has brought back many a melody, and many a traveller's tale,-

O children! won't you even come to hear the

Nightingale ?

VIII.

Then the Cuckoo, your old playmate, whom one never wholly sees,

So dearly loves he hide and seek, amid the thickest

trees;

He's come again, and looks for you, and if you're not soon here,

He'll fly off to the children that are watching him elsewhere.

IX.

We're come by tens of thousands, and the leafy woods are ringing,

With the choruses of happy hymns that all of us

are singing;

But though the spring is beautiful, and though our hearts are glad,

We miss the children everywhere, and missing them, are sad.

X.

Soon no primroses will twinkle 'mid the mossy banks

of green,

And only for a little while the violets are seen; The Nightingales and Cuckoos must be gone and dare not wait,

O children! come out quickly or you'll look for them too late!

And day went by, and yet a day,
But ne'er into the woods went they.
The thrushes sang their songs in vain,
The nightingales flew South again,
The lark soar'd singing to the skies,
The children never raised their eyes;
Linnets piped where beech leaves glisten'd,
No one sought the place and listen'd.
Never a little child said "hark,"

To night-bird singing in the dark;
And all the jewellery that strew'd
The green paths of the balmy wood,
Golden primrose, daffodilly,
Turquoise harebell, silver lily,
All lost their colour, day by day,
Melting like fairy-gold away;

No single blossom soon was seen,

In all the paradise of

green;

Whether you climb'd the clover hill,
Or reach'd the forest cool and still;
And without flowers one well might deem
The very land to be enchanted;

So dreary everything does seem,

So much the fairy-folks are wanted; For, indeed, these pretty bright-hued things Are the living fairies of the Springs!

Throughout the whole bright month of May, Little Allie suffering lay:

Her head droop'd down, her cheeks were hot, They spoke her name-she answer'd not; She heeded neither book nor toy;