LANDSCAPE. CALM and still light on yon great plain That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, And crowded farms and lessening towers, To mingle with the bounding main. TENNYSON. MAY. WHENCE is it that the air so sudden clears, And all things in a moment turn so mild? Whose breath or beams have got proud Earth with child Of all the treasure that great Nature's worth, And makes her every minute to bring forth? How comes it winter is so quite forced hence And locked up under ground? That every sense Hath several objects, trees have got their heads, The fields their coats, that now the shining meads Do boast the paunce, the lily, and the rose, And every flower doth laugh as Zephyr blows? That seas are now more even than the land; The rivers run as smoothed by his hand; Only their heads are crispèd by his stroke. How plays the yearling, with his brow scarce broke, Now in the open grass, and frisking lambs Make wanton salts about their drysucked dams, Who to repair their bags do rob the fields. How is't each bough a several music yields? The lusty throstle, early nightingale, Accord in tune though vary in their tale. The chirping swallow, called forth by the sun, Queen art thou still for each gay plant Where the slim wild deer roves; And served in depths where fishes haunt Their own mysterious groves. AND if, on this thy natal morn, The pole, from which thy name Hath not departed, stands forlorn Of song and dance and game, Still from the village-green a vow Aspires to thee addrest, Wherever peace is on the brow, Or love within the breast. Yes! where love nestles thou canst teach The soul to love the more; Hush, feeble lyre! weak words, refuse The service to prolong! To yon exulting thrush the Muse Intrusts the imperfect song;' His voice shall chant, in accents clear, Throughout the livelong day, Till the first silver star appear, The sovereignty of May. WORDSWORTH. CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING. GET up, get up, for shame; the blooming Morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colors through the air; Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east, Above an hour since, yet you not drest, Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green, and trimm'd with trees; see how Devotion gives each house a bough, Or branch; each porch, each doore, ere this, An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove; As if here were those cooler shades of love. And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. HERRICK. THE BIRDS OF KILLING WORTH. IT was the season when through all the land The merle and mavis build, and building sing Those lovely lyrics written by His hand Whom Saxon Cædmon calls the Blithe-heart King; When on the boughs the purple buds expand, The banners of the vanguard of the Spring; And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap, And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee; The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be; And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd, Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said, "Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread!" Then from his house, a temple painted white, With fluted columns, and a roof of red, The Squire came forth, and splendid sight! august Slowly descending, with majestic tread, Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, Down the long street he walked, as one who said, "A town that boasts inhabitants like me Can have no lack of good society." The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere, The instinct of whose nature was to kill; The wrath of God he preached from year to year, And read with fervor Edwards on the Will: His favorite pastime was to slay the deer In summer on some Adirondack hill: food; The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, Flooding with melody the neighborhood; Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song, "You slay them all! and wherefore? For the gain Of a scant handful, more or less, of wheat, Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, Scratched up at random by industrious feet Searching for worm or weevil after rain, Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet As are the songs these uninvited guests Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. Is this more pleasant to you than the whirr Of meadow-lark, and its sweet roundelay, Or twitter of little fieldfares, as you take Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake? "You call them thieves and pillagers; but know They are the wingèd wardens of your farms, Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, And from your harvests keep a hundred harms; Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Renders good service as your manat-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, And crying havoc on the slug and snail. |