" I love my Love in the days of Spring,
With her I'll go a-garlanding,
A-garlanding in the merry May,
Laughing and singing all the day.
We roam the woods, we trace the streams,
Our waking thoughts are bright as dreams;
No bee on the blossom, no lark in the sky,
Is happier than my love and I."

I love to swing in the garden-bowers,
Under the branches all alone; —
I've heard your speeches, full of flowers,
Till I am weary of the hours —
So, prithee, babbler, get you gone.
Can you not leave me to myself?

Young Damon, and Chloe were mutually fond,
They kiss'd and they toy'd all the day;
Kind Hymen consented to finish the rest,
And join them for ever and aye.
Some fiend interfer'd, and the rites were delay'd,
By a circumstance few would suppose;
For thoughtless young Damon one day as he play'd,
Presented to Kitty — — a rose.

Alarm'd at the gift, Chloe rated the youth,
Fill'd with jealousy, rage, and disdain;
She call'd him false hearted, persidious and base,
And instantly quitted the plain.

Corinna was lovely, was witty, and young,
And all o'er the town had her praises been sung;
The beaux and the fops, paid their court to her eyes,
And the belles, tho' her rivals, beheld with surprise;
Yet, to all who in praising her charms did excel,
Her answer was only, indeed very well.

Lysander amidst her admirers prest,
And the true flame of love found to glow in his breast;
With awe he approach'd, and with modesty spoke,
Yet his passion she treated as only a joke;
Tho' the pangs he endur'd, no tongue could e'er tell,

Before my tale of days is told,
O may I watch, on reverent knees,
The Unknown Beauty once unfold
The magic of her mysteries!

Before I die, O may I see,
Clasp'd in her violet girdle, Spring;
May April breezes blow to me
Songs that the youngest poets sing!

Old eyes are dull to sights unseen,
Old ears are dull to songs unsung,
But if the heart stay warm and green,
Perchance the senses may keep young.

Howe'er it be, I will not quail
To tell the lapse of years like sand;
My faith in beauty shall not fail

What graven words shall mark as mine
This milestone of a year?
What prayer shall be the worthy sign
Of all I hope and fear?
Not greed for gold —
I'm growing old;
Burdens I dare no more uphold;
Nor deem I meet for weary feet
The dust and struggle of the street.

Then shall I wish for utter peace?
For light with calm around?
For all the stir of life to cease
In apathy profound?
Ah! no, too long
I've warred with wrong;
I've loved the clash of battle-song;
For me, to drone in ease alone

Here, where below the bastion of the hills
Immortal song still gushes like a fountain,
And with its delicate enchantment fills
The granite goblet of the hollow mountain,
I come, the pilgrim of an alien clime,
And croon a stave with these my Northland brothers,
Since more than blood-kin is the bond of rhyme,
And sisters were our ancient Muses mothers.

Nevermore sail or oar
Hears the chorus that once bore us
To the shore,
Where the birches shake their tresses
From the outmost sandy nesses.

Fare ye well, brae and dell,
And our meadow, deep in shadow!
Never tell
How we loved your pleasant reaches
And the shade of your sleek beeches.

Hours and hours, sun and showers,
Quiet-breasted, here we rested
By your flowers,
Flowers will fade and life is tragic;
Keep, sweet lake, your breathless magic.

To your shore nevermore
Come we sailing, blithely hailing,

From slippery slab to slab I crawl
Above the shattering waterfall.

A mist, like hopeless human prayer,
Curls in the firs and welters there.

Through them I watch descend, descend
The shuddering waters without end.

Gray tears have fallen to swell this flood,
And iron-ruddy drops like blood.

It moans, and sobs, and howls, and sings,
And whispers of heart-breaking things.

For ages it has thundered so
Into the slate-blue lake below.

Each streak of blood, each cold gray tear,
Sinks down into the sullen mere.

AN ASPIRATION FROM LONDON .

What time the fern puts forth its rings,
What time the early throstle sings,
I love to fly the murky town,
And tread the moorlands, bare and brown;
From greenest level of the glens,
To barest summit of the Bens,
To trace the torrents where they flow,
Serene or brawling, fierce or slow;
To linger pleased, and loiter long,
A silent listener to their song.

Farewell, ye streets! Again I'll sit
On crags to watch the shadows flit;
To list the buzzing of the bee,

As t'other day young Damon past,
Where Chloe sat demure,
He dost his hat, and sigh'd and gaz'd,
'Twas love that struck him sure.
With reverence then approach'd the fair,
Which she seem'd very shy at;
And when he prais'd her shape and air,
Cry'd, prithee, Sir, be quiet.

My fair, he cry'd, O be not coy,
Nor think my meaning rude;
Let love like mine thy mind employ,
True love can ne'er intrude,
Her hand he then essay'd to kiss,
Which, frowning, she cry'd fye at;
And when he struggled for the bliss,