Till anew,

Hush-cuckoo,

Hark! it comes the wood-depths through.

Now the woods are starred with eyes;
Now their weeds and mosses through,
Peep the white anemonies, .

Daisies pied and violets blue.
Flowers, they spring,

Birds, they sing,

All to swell the pomp of Spring.

Now in poets' songs 'tis told

How, in vales of Arcady,

Once men knew an age of gold,

Once the earth seemed heaven to be;

Hark! they sing,

Years, ye bring

Golden times again with Spring.

II.

Now the fields are full of flowers

;

Now in every country lane, Making mirth and gladness ours, Wild-flowers nod and blush again;

Now they stain
Heath and lane,

Longed-for lost ones come again.

Now the mower, on his scythe
Leaning, wipes his furrowed brow;

Many a song the milkmaid blithe

Carols through the morning now;

Blithely lusty Roger now

Through the furrows plods along, Singing to the creaking plough Many a quaint old country song; Morning rings,

As he sings,

With the praise of other Springs.

Children now in every school

Wish away the weary hours;

Doubly now they feel the rule

Barring them from buds and flowers;
How they shout,

Bounding out,

Lanes and fields to race about!

Now with shrill and wondering shout,
As some new-found prize they pull,
Prattlers range the fields about,

Till their laps with flowers are full;
Seated round

On the ground,

Now they sort the wonders found.

Now do those in cities pent,
Labouring life away, confess,

Spite of all, that life was meant
One to be with happiness;

Hark! they sing,

Pleasant Spring

Joy to all was meant to bring.

Poets now in sunshine dream;
Now their eyes such visions see
That the golden ages seem

Times that yet again might be.
Hark! they sing,

Years shall bring
Golden ages-endless Spring.

FROM SEA.

IT was not for my mother,
Though dear she is to me,

Though old she is, and poor she is,
That I sailed the stormy sea!

But it was for my true-love,

That dearer is to me

Than father and than mother both,
"Twas for her I sailed the sea.

The wind blows fair and freshly,
Right fresh for Harwich Bay,
For the cottage on its sandy cliff,

That I think of night and day;
That I think of, and I dream of,

And have dreamt of night and day, In calm and storm, and south the line, A thousand leagues away.

Now, watch, look out to leeward!

The land must sure be near.

There looms the cape through the morning mist,

That I've longed to see appear;
To see it rising from the waves,
For it shields the quiet bay,
Upon whose cliffs the cottage stands
That I've prayed for far away.

Now, men, the sails be furling !
Now let the anchor go!

At our brown ship's side let our best boat ride,
And the oars be shipped below;

And while the rope you're casting off,
Take in my chest and me;
Now farewell, blustering captain,
And farewell, roaring sea!

Now pull-pull with a will, boys,
And beach right high the boat;
For dear, dear is the land to me

That have tossed so long afloat;
And dear, dear is the girl to me,

With each breath loved more and more— Yon girl whose brown hand shades her eyes, To see us pull ashore.

She shades her eyes a moment—
O that the beach were near!

Does she see my torn hat waving?

Does she catch my cry from here?
Yes; down the cliff she's flying;
Pull-pull, my men, for life,
That I may kiss again my girl,
My bonny, bonny wife!

Thomas Westwood.

LITTLE BELL.

"He prayeth well, who loveth well

Both man and bird and beast."

The Ancient Mariner.

IPED the Blackbird, on the beechwood spray,

PIPED

"Pretty maid, slow wandering this way,

What's your name?" quoth he.

"What's your name? Oh! stop and straight unfold,

Pretty maid, with showery curls of gold."

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks,
Tossed aside her gleaming, golden locks,-

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66

Bonny bird!" quoth she,
Sing me your best song, before I go."
"Here's the very finest song I know,
Little Bell," said he.

And the Blackbird piped-you never heard
Half so gay a song from any bird;
Full of quips and wiles,

Now so round and rich, now soft and slow,
All for love of that sweet face below,

Dimpled o'er with smiles.

And the while that bonny bird did pour
His full heart out, freely, o'er and o’er,
'Neath the morning skies,

In the little childish heart below,