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!

GO, LOVELY ROSE.

EDMUND WALLER, born 1603, died 1687.

Go, lovely Rose !

Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,
That had'st thou sprung

In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired:

Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired.

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee,→

How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

[Yet, though thou fade,

From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise;
And teach the maid

That goodness Time's rude hand defies,-
That virtue lives when beauty dies.]

The last stanza was added by Henry Kirke White, and is the crowning grace of a beautiful poem, which would scarcely have been complete without it.

THE FAIRIES' SONG.

Anonymous. From the Tixall Poetry, temp. Charles I.

WE dance on hills above the wind,

And leave our footsteps there behind,
Which shall to after ages last,

When all our dancing days are past.

Sometimes we dance upon the shore,
To whistling winds and seas that roar,
Then we make the wind to blow,
And set the seas a-dancing too.

The thunder's noise is our delight,
And lightnings make us day by night;
And in the air we dance on high,
To the loud music of the sky.

About the moon we make a ring,
And falling stars we wanton fling,
Like squibs and rockets, for a toy,
While what frights others is our joy

But when we'd hunt away our cares,
We boldly mount the galloping spheres
And riding so from east to west,
We chase each nimble zodiac beast.

Thus, giddy grown, we make our beds, With thick black clouds to rest our heads, And flood the earth with our dark showers, That did but sprinkle these our bowers.

Thus, having done with orbs and sky,
Those mighty spaces vast and high,
Then down we come and take the shapes,
Sometimes of cats, sometimes of apes.

Next turn'd to mites in cheese, forsooth,
We get into some hollow tooth;
Wherein, as in a Christmas hall,
We frisk and dance, the devil and all.

Then we change our wily features,
Into yet far smaller creatures,
And dance in joints of gouty toes,
To painful tunes of groans and woes.

IN SUMMER TIME.

TOM D'URFEY, born 1628, died 1723.

In summer time, when flow'rs do spring,
And birds sit on each tree,

Let lords and knights say what they will,
There's none so merry as we.
There's Tom with Nell,
Who bears the bell,

And Willy with pretty Betty;
O how they skip it,

Caper and trip it,

Under the greenwood tree!

Our music is a little pipe,

That can so sweetly play;

We hire old Hal from Whitsuntide
Till latter Lammas-day;

66

On Sabbath days,

And holy-days,

After evening prayer comes he;

And then we skip it,

Caper, and trip it,

Under the greenwood tree.

Come, play us Adam and Eve,” says Dick, "What's that?" says little Pipe;

"The Beginning of the World,"1 quoth Dick, "For we are dancing-ripe;"

"Is 't that you call?

Then have at all!"

He played with merry glee;

O then did we skip it,

Caper, and trip it,

Under the greenwood tree.

O'er hills and dales, to Whitsun-ales,

We dance a merry fytte;

When Susan sweet with John doth meet,
She gives him hit for hit-

A favourite dance-tune in the seventeenth century.