Made up of whitethorn neatly interwove,
As if here were those cooler shades of love.

Can such delights be in the street
And open fields and we not see't?
Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey
The proclamation made for May,

And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying!

There's not a budding boy or girl this day
But is got up and gone to bring in May:
A deal of youth, ere this, is come
Back, and with whitethorn laden home:
Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream,
Before that we have left to dream;

And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted

troth,

And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
Many a green gown has been given;

Many a kiss, both odd and even;
Many a glance too has been sent
From out the eye, love's firmament;

Many a jest told of the keys betraying

This night, and locks picked; yet we're not a Maying!

Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,
And take the harmless folly of the time:
We shall grow old apace, and die

Before we know our liberty:
Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun:
And, as a vapour, or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne'er be found again;

So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade,
All love, all liking, all delight

Lies drowned with us in endless night;
Then, while time serves and we are but decaying,
Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying!

HERRICK.

THE HAY FIELD.

A Morning Scene.

THY joys, gay spirit of the social plain,
And useful labours, renovate my strain;
Rising, it vibrates to thy oaten reed,

And sings the artless pleasures of the mead.
No frown the Muse from Truth and Nature fears,
Though pale Refinement sicken as she hears.

Now is it June's bright morn, and Beauty twines The glowing wreaths that deck her thousand shrines;

On the lark's wing sweet music hails the day,
And o'er the sunbeam pours his liquid lay;
While the blithe spirit of the social plain
Leads health, and love, and gladness in his train.
Crown'd with her pail, light rocking as she steps,
Along the fresh moist grass young Lucy trips;
The rustic vest is from her ankle drawn,
Yet catches many a dewdrop of the lawn.
Warm on her downy cheek health's deepest glow,
And in her eyes its lavish lustres flow;
And in her voice its wildly warbled song
Floats, and returns, the echoing glades among.

Her nut-brown tresses wanton on the gale;
Her breath perfumes afresh the blossom'd vale.
Nine blooming maidens meet her in the grove,
And ask, and tell the tender tale of love;
With their prone fork a mystic scroll they frame,
Tracing on sand each heart-recorded name.
O'er each bared shoulder hangs the idle rake,
And busy fancy paints the coming wake.
But from the lip the' unfinish'd periods break,
And Joy's warm blushes deeper tinge the cheek;
For see the' expected youths, in manhood's pride,
Stoutly are striding down the mountain's side;
High o'er the rapid brook, at once, they bound,
And gay good morrows through the plain resound.
And now is Labour busy in the dale;

The cow stands duteous by the cleanly pail,
Where the rich milk descends in eddying tides,
Pure as the virgin hands through which it glides.
The youths, with shortening arm and bending

head,

Sweep their bright sithes along the shiver'd mead. Three blithesome maids the grassy treasure shake; Three draw, with gentle hand, the thrifty rake; And three, mid carol sweet, and jocund tale, Scatter the breathing verdure to the gale.

Where yonder cottages' ascending smoke, In spiral columns, wreaths the sun-gilt oak, The careful parents of the village dwell, And mix the savoury pottage in the cell; Their little rosy girls and boys prepare The steaming breakfast through the vale to bear. See, with pleased looks, gay Ceres' happy train Watch their young donors, loaded on the plain

Inhale the grateful fumes that round them rise, Mark their slow heedful step and earnest eyes; The chubby hands, that grasp the circling rim, Where health's warm viand rises to the brim.

Light on the violet bank recline the band, And take the present from the willing hand. With eager appetite, and poignant taste, Thank the kind bearers, and enjoy the feast.

Yon tall, white spire, that rises mid the trees, Courting, with golden vane, the passing breeze, A peal, far heard, sends merry down the dale, The notes of triumph tell a bridal tale.

The hallow'd green sod the swift river laves,
Dark alders trembling o'er the sunny waves;
Its rippling breast receives each measured round,
Mellowing the shrillness of the silver sound.

Our youthful lovers hail the harmonious noise,
And Hope anticipates their bridal joys;
Pours all her magic influence o'er the scene,
Laughs in their eyes, and triumphs in their mien.
Sportful their little friends around them rove,
And all is frolic, innocence, and love.

May equal bliss the varying year adorn, And gild the labours of each future morn; Whether the wanton hours, that lead the spring, Catch the translucent raindrops from her wing; Or zoneless summer, flaunting o'er the meads, Empurpled bloom, and richest fragrance sheds; Or auburn autumn, from her full lap throws The mellow fruits upon the bending boughs; Or winter, with his dark relentless train, Wind, snow, and sleet, shall desolate the plain, Howl o'er the hill, and, as the river raves, In drear stagnation warp the' arrested waves.

Yes, may the days of bloom and ripeness find
Such joys rewarding each untainted mind;
And, in the rage of the severer hours,

May balmy Comfort, with assuasive powers,
Present the stores, by former toil amass'd,
Pile the warm hearth, and dress the neat repast:
Bid sport and song prepare the gladsome rite;
Then smooth the pillow through the stormy night!"
Thus Health and Love the varying year, shall
[ment frown.
While Truth and Nature smile, though pale Refine-

crown,

ANNA SEWARD.

THE HOCK CART*;

OR,

Harvest Home.

COME, Sons of summer; by whose toil
We are the lords of wine and oil;

By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands:
Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come,
And to the pipe sing harvest home.
Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
Dress'd up with all the country art:

The hock cart means the rejoicing cart, or that which brings home the last load of corn, terminating the harvest. Hock-tide, or heag-tide, signifying high tide, the height or noon of merriment (from heag or heah, Saxon, high), was a festivity annually observed by the English, in commemoration of the death of Hardicanute in 1042, which delivered them from the Danish yoke. All landlords were used to receive from their tenants annually a certain fine called Hock Tuesday money, for allowing them to keep this holiday, which took place on the Tuesday after Easter week. It answers to the Fugalia of the Romans, feasts celebrating the expulsion of their kings.