LXVIII

O SWALLOW, Swallow, flying, flying South,
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.

O tell her, Swallow, that thou knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North.

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill,

And cheep and twitter twenty million loves.

O were I thou that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died.

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, Delaying as the tender ash delays

To clothe herself, when all the woods are green?

O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown:
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South,
But in the North long since my nest is made.

O tell her, brief is life, but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South.

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

LXIX

A SLUMBER did my spirit seal;

I had no human fears:

She seem'd a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;

Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course
With rocks, and stones, and trees.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH,

LXX

THE bee to the heather,
The lark to the sky,
The roe to the greenwood,
And whither shall I ?

Oh, Alice! ah, Alice!

So sweet to the bee
Are the moorland and heather
By Cannock and Leigh!

Oh, Alice! ah, Alice!

O'er Teddesley Park
The sunny sky scatters

The notes of the lark!

Oh, Alice! ah, Alice!
In Beaudesert glade

The roes toss their antlers
For joy of the shade !—

But Alice, dear Alice!

Glade, moorland, nor sky
Without you can content me,
And whither shall I ?

SIR HENRY TAYLOR.

LXXI

WHERE, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oaktrees immingle,

Where, amid odorous copse, bridle-paths wander and wind,

Where, under mulberry branches, the diligent rivulet sparkles,

Or, amid cotton and maize, peasants their water-works

ply,

Where, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated,

Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky,— Ah, that I were far away from the crowd and the streets

of the city,

Under the vine-trellis laid, O my beloved, with thee ! ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

LXXII

A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS

WHEN Spring comes laughing

By vale and hill,

By wind-flower walking

And daffodil,

LXXIII

LOVE'S GOOD-MORROW

PACK clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air blow soft, larks mount aloft,
To give my love good-morrow.
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing,
To give my love good-morrow,
Notes from them both I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin-red-breast,
Sing birds in every furrow;
And from each hill let music shrill
Give my fair love good-morrow.
Blackbird, and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow !
You pretty elves, among yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow.
To give my love good-morrow,
Sing birds in every furrow.

THOMAS HEYWOOD.

LXXIV

THE SAILOR'S RETURN

HIGH over the breakers,

Low under the lee,

Sing ho

The billow,

And the lash of the rolling sea!