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UNIV. OF

Rural Odes for May.

GRAY'S ODE ON THE SPRING.

Lo! where the rosy-bosomed hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear,
Disclose the long-expected flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,

The untaught harmony of Spring: While, whispering pleasures as they fly, Cold zephyrs through the clear blue sky Their gathered fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade,
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
O'er-canopies the glade,

Beside some water's rushy brink

With me the muse shall sit, and think

(At ease reclined in rustic state), How vain the ardor of the crowd, How low, how little, are the proud, How indigent the great!

Still is the toiling hand of Care;

The panting herds repose;

Yet hark, how through the peopled air

The busy murmur glows!

The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honeyed spring,

And float amid the liquid noon :
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some show their gayly-gilded trim,
Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of Man ;

And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.

Alike the busy and the gay
But flutter through life's little day,

In Fortune's varying colors dressed;
Bruised by the hand of rough mischance,
Or chilled by age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear, in accents low,
The sportive, kind reply;

Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!

Thy joy no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone-
We frolic while 't is May.

DAWES'S "SONG OF SPRING." 'Tis the season of tender delight,—

The season of fresh-springing flowers;
Young Spring in the joy of her beauty is bright,
And leads on the rapturous hours;

Fair nature is loud in her transport of pleasure,
The woods and the valleys reëcho her lay;
The robin now warbles his love-breathing measure,

And scatters the blossoms while tilting the spray; One impulse of tenderness thrills through the groves, While the birds carol sweetly their innocent loves. How mild is the zephyr that blows!

What fragrance his balmy wings bear-
He breathes as if fearful to brush from the rose
The dew-drops so tremulous there!

The stream flowing gently beside the green cresses
So lightsomely dashes their tendrils away-
It seems some fond mother, who while she caresses,
Would sportfully chide her young children at play.
Hear the minstrel-bee lulling the blossoms to rest,
For the nectar he sips as the wild-flowers' guest!
Look out, then, on Nature a while,

Observe her inviting thee now, —
Benevolence beams in her sunshiny smile,

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PERCIVAL'S "REIGN OF MAY."

I FEEL a newer life in every gale;
The winds, that fan the flowers,

And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,
Tell of serener hours, -

Of hours that glide unfelt away

Beneath the sky of May.

The spirit of the gentle south wind calls

From his blue throne of air,

And where his whispering voice in music falls, Beauty is budding there;

The bright ones of the valley break

Their slumbers and awake.

The waving verdure rolls along the plain,
And the wide forest weaves,

To welcome back its playful mates again,
A canopy of leaves;

And from its darkening shadow floats
A gush of trembling notes.

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Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May;

The tresses of the woods

With the light dallying of the west wind play,

And the full-brimming floods,

As gladly to their goal they run,

Hail the returning sun.

MILTON'S "MAY MORNING."

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May! that dost inspire Mirth and youth and warm desire; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee and wish thee long.

HOLMES'S "SPRING SCENE." WINTER is past; the heart of Nature warms Beneath the wreck of unresisted storms; Doubtful at first, suspected more than seen, The southern slopes are fringed with tender green; On sheltered banks, beneath the dripping eaves, Spring's earliest nurslings spread their glowing leaves,

Bright with the hues from wider pictures won,
White, azure, golden, drift, or sky, or sun :
The snowdrop bearing on her radiant breast
The frozen trophy torn from winter's crest ;
The violet gazing on the arch of blue
Till her own iris wears its deepened hue;
The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mould,
Naked and shivering, with his cup of gold.
Swelled with new life, the darkening elm on high
Prints her thick buds against the spotted sky;
On all her boughs the stately chestnut cleaves
The gummy shroud that wraps her embryo leaves;
The housefly, stealing from his narrow grave,
Drugged with the opiate that November gave,
Beats with faint wing against the snowy pane,
Or crawls tenacious o'er its lucid plain;
From shaded chinks of lichen-crusted walls
In languid curves the gliding serpent crawls ;
The bog's green harper, thawing from his sleep,
Twangs a hoarse note, and tries a shortened leap.
On floating rails that face the softening noon,
The still, shy turtles range their dark platoons,
Or toiling, aimless, o'er the mellowing fields,
Trail through the grass their tessellated shields.
At last young April, ever frail and fair,
Wooed by her playmate with the golden hair,
Chased to the margin of receding floods,
O'er the soft meadows starred with opening buds,
In tears and blushes sighs herself away,
And hides her cheek beneath the flowers of May.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK BY MOORE.

BEHOLD the young, the rosy Spring,
Gives to the breeze her scented wing,
While virgin graces, warm with May,
Fling roses o'er her dewy way.
The murmuring billows of the deep
Have languished into silent sleep.
And mark! the flitting sea-birds lave
Their plumes in the reflecting wave;
While cranes from hoary Winter fly
To flutter in a kinder sky.
Now the genial star of day
Dissolves the murky clouds away,
And cultured field and winding stream
Are freshly glittering in his beam.

Now the earth prolific swells
With leafy buds and flowery bells;
Gemming shoots the olive twine,
Clusters bright festoon the vine;
All along the branches creeping,
Through the velvet foliage peeping,
Little infant fruits we see
Nursing into luxury.

DRYDEN'S "EMILY A-MAYING.”

THE young Emilia, fairer to be seen Than the fair lily on the flowery greenMore fresh than May herself in blossoms newFor with the rosy color strove her hue Waked, as her custom was, before the day, To do the observance due to sprightly May; For sprightly May commands our youth to keep The vigils of her nights, and breaks their sluggard sleep.

Each gentle breath with kindly warmth she moves; Inspires new flames, revives extinguished loves.

In this remembrance, Emily, ere day, Arose, and dressed herself in rich array; Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair, Adown her shoulders fell her length of hair; A ribbon did the braided tresses bind, The rest was loose, and wantoned in the wind. Aurora had but newly chased the night, And purpled o'er the sky with blushing light, When to the garden walk she took her way To sport and trip along in cool of day, And offer maiden vows in honor of the May. At every turn she made a little stand, And thrust among the thorns her lily hand, To draw the rose; and every rose she drew, She shook the stalk, and brushed away the dew; Then parti-colored flowers of white and red She wove, to make a garland for her head : This done, she sung and carolled out so clear, That men and angels might rejoice to hear: Our wondering Philomel forgot to sing, And learned from her to welcome in the Spring.

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My Peggy smiles sae kindly,
Whene'er I whisper love,

That I look down on a' the town, -
That I look down upon a crown.
My Peggy smiles sae kindly,

It makes me blyth and bauld; And naething gi'es me sic delight As wauking of the fauld.

My Peggy sings sae saftly, When on my pipe I play. By a' the rest it is confest, By a' the rest, that she sings best. My Peggy sings sae saftly,

And in her sangs are tauld, With innocence, the wale o' sense, At wauking of the fauld.

This sunny morning, Roger, cheers my blood, And puts all nature in a jovial mood.

How heartsome is 't to see the rising plants,

To hear the birds chirm o'er their pleasing rants!
How halesome is 't to snuff the cawler air,
And all the sweets it bears, when void of care!
What ails thee, Roger, then? what gars thee grane?
Tell me the cause of thy ill-seasoned pain.

ROGER.

I'm born, O Patie! to a thrawart fate. I'm born to strive with hardships sad and great! Tempests may cease to jaw the rowan flood, Corbies and tods to grein for lambkins' blood, But I, opprest with never-ending grief, Maun ay despair of lighting on relief.

PATIE.

The bees shall loath the flower, and quit the hive, The saughs on boggie ground shall cease to thrive, Ere scornfu' queans, or loss of warldly gear, Shall spill my rest, or ever force a tear!

ROGER.

done

Sae might I say; but it's no easy
By ane whase saul's sac sadly out of tune.
You have sae saft a voice, and slid a tongue,
You are the darling of baith auld and young.
If I but ettle at a sang, or speak,

They dit their lugs, syne up their leglens cleek,
And jeer me hameward frae the loan or bught,
While I'm confused with mony a vexing thought.
Yet I am tall, and as well built as thee,
Nor mair unlikely to a lass's ee;
For ilka sheep ye have, I'll number ten;
And should, as ane may think, come farther ben.

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ROGER.

I wish I cou'dna looe her; - but in vain ;

I still maun doat, and thole her proud disdain.
My Bawty is a cur I dearly like,
Till he yowl'd sair1 she strak the poor dumb tyke.
If I had filled a nook within her breast,
She wad have shawn mair kindness to my beast.
When I begin to tune my stock and horn,
With a' her face she shaws a cauldrife scorn.
Last night I played-ye never heard sic spite-
'O'er Bogie' was the spring, and her delyte, –
Yet tauntingly she at her cousin speered,
Gif she could tell what tune I played, and sneered !
Flocks, wander where ye like, I dinna care,
I'll break my reed, and never whistle mair!

PATIE.

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E'en do sae, Roger, wha can help misluck? Saebeins she be sic a thrawn-gabbit chuck, Yonder's a craig, since ye have tint all houp, Gae till 't your ways, and take the lover's lowp!

ROGER.

I needna mak sic speed my blood to spill; I'll warrant death come soon enough a-will.

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PATIE.

Daft gowk! leave aff that silly whingin way,
Seem careless, there's my hand ye'll win the day.
Hear how I served my lass I looe as weel
As ye do Jenny, and with heart as leel.
Last morning I was gay and early out,
Upon a dyke I leaned glowring about,
I saw my Meg come linking o'er the lee;
I saw my Meg, but Meggy saw na me;
For yet the sun was wading thro' the mist,
And she was close upon me e'er she wist ;
Her coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw
Her straight bare legs that whiter were than snaw.
Her cockernony snooded up fou sleek,
Her haffet locks hang waving on her cheek;
Her cheek sae ruddy, and her een sae clear;
And O! her mouth's like ony hinny pear.
Neat, neat she was, in bustine waistcoat clean,
As she came skiffing o'er the dewy green :
Blythsome I cried, 'My bonny Meg, come here,
I ferly wherefore ye're sae soon asteer;
But I can guess, ye 're gawn to gather dew.'
She scoured awa, and said, 'What's that to you?'
Then, fare ye weel, Meg-dorts; and e'en 's ye like?'
I careless cryed, and lap in o'er the dyke.

I trow, when that she saw, within a crack,
She came with a right thieveless errand back ;
Miscawed me first; then bad me hound my dog,
To wear up three waff ewes strayed on the bog.
I leugh; and sae did she; then with great haste
I clasped my arms about her neck and waist;
About her yielding waist, and took a fouth
Of sweetest kisses frae her glowing mouth.

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Kind Patie, now fair fa' your honest heart, Ye're ay sae cadgy, and have sic an art To hearten ane! for now, as clean's a leek, Ye've cherished me since ye began to speak. Sae, for your pains, I'll make ye a propine (My mother, rest her saul! she made it fine); A tartan plaid, spun of good hawslock woo, Scarlet and green the sets, the borders blue : With spraings like gowd and siller crossed with black; I never had it yet upon my back. Weel are ye wordy o' 't, wha have sae kind Redd up my ravel'd doubts, and cleared my mind.

PATIE.

Weel, had ye there! And since ye 've frankly made To me a present of your braw new plaid, My flute's be yours; and she too that's sae nice Shall come a-will, gif ye 'll take my advice.

ROGER.

As ye advise, I'll promise to observ't; But ye maun keep the flute, ye best deserv't. Now tak it out, and gie's a bonny spring, For I'm in tift to hear you play and sing.

PATIE.

But first we'll take a turn up to the height, And see gif all our flocks be feeding right; Be that time bannocks, and a shave of cheese, Will make a breakfast that a laird might please;

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Gae farer up the burn to Habbie's How, Where a' the sweets of spring and simmer grow. Between twa birks, out o'er a little lin, The water fa's, and maks a singand din : A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass, Kisses with easy whirles the bordering grass. We'll end our washing while the morning's cool; And when the day grows het, we'll to the pool, There wash oursells; 't is healthfu' now in May, And sweetly cauler on sae warm a day.

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I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end! A herd mair sheepish yet I never kenned. He kames his hair, indeed, and gaes right snug, With ribbon-knots at his blue bonnet lug; Whilk pensylie he wears a thought a-jee, And spreads his garters dic'd beneath his knee; He falds his owrelay down his breast with care, And few gangs trigger to the kirk or fair; For a' that, he can neither sing nor say, Except, 'How d' ye?'-or, 'There's a bonny day.'

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