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All down in the grove,
Around, above,

Sweet music floats;
As now loudly vying,
Now softly sighing,
The nightingale's plying
Her tuneful notes;
And joyous at spring,
Her companions sing,
Up, maidens, repair
To the meadows so fair,
And dance we away,
This merry May.

GOTTFRIED VON NIFEN, about 1200.

Translation of E. TAYLOR.

MAY.

FROM THE GERMAN MINNESINGERS.

May, sweet May, again is come-
May, that frees the land from gloom;
Children, children, up and see
All her stores of jollity!

On the laughing hedgerow's side

She hath spread her treasures wide;
She is in the greenwood shade,
Where the nightingale hath made
Every branch and every tree
Ring with her sweet melody;

Hill and dale are May's own treasures.
Youths, rejoice! In sportive measures

Sing ye! join the chorus gay!
Hail this merry, merry May!

Up, then, children! we will go
Where the blooming roses grow;
In a joyful company

We the bursting flowers will see :
Up; your festal dress prepare!

Where gay hearts are meeting-there

May hath pleasures most inviting,

Heart, and sight, and ear delighting.

Listen to the bird's sweet song;

Hark! how soft it floats along!

Courtly dames our pleasures share!
Never saw I May so fair;
Therefore dancing will we go.

Youths, rejoice! the flowerets blow!
Sing ye! join the chorus gay!
Hail this merry, merry May!

Our manly youths, where are they now?
Bid them up and with us go,

To the sporters on the plain :
Bid adieu to care and pain,

Now, thou pale and wounded lover!
Thou thy peace shalt soon recover,

Many a laughing lip and eye
Speaks the light heart's gayety;
Lovely flowers around we find,
In the smiling verdure twined;

Richly steeped in May-dews glowing.
Youths, rejoice! the flowers are blowing!

Sing ye! join the chorus gay!
Hail this merry, merry May!

O, if to my love restored-
To her, o'er all her sex adored-
What supreme delight were mine!
How would care her sway resign?
Merrily in the bloom of May
Would I weave a garland gay.
Better than the best is she,
Purer than all purity;
For her spotless self alone,

I will praise this changeless one:
Thankful, or unthankful, she
Shall my song, my idol be.

Youths, then join the chorus gay!
Hail this merry, merry May!

Translation of EDGAR TAYLOR.

CONRAD V. KIRCHBERG, about 1170.

SONG.

FROM ANGLING REMINISCENCES."

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!

Meet the morn upon the lea;
Are the emeralds of the spring

On the angler's trysting-tree?

Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
Are there buds on our willow-tree?
Buds and birds on our trysting-tree?

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Have you met the honey bee,
Circling upon rapid wing,

'Round the angler's trysting-tree?
Up, sweet thrushes, up and see!
Are there bees at our willow-tree?
Birds and bees at the trysting-tree

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Are the fountains gushing free?
Is the south wind wandering

Through the angler's trysting-tree?
Up, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
Is there wind up our willow-tree?
Wind or calm at our trysting-tree?

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Wile us with a merry glee;
To the flowery haunts of spring-
To the angler's trysting-tree.

Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!

Are there flowers 'neath our willow-tree?

Spring and flowers at the trysting-tree?

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.

STODDART.

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.

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.

JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

VII.

The Flock.

DY

YER'S poem of "The Fleece," though little read now-adays, has found warm admirers among the great poets of England. Akenside once remarked that he should regulate his opinion of the public taste by the reception of "The Fleece;" for if it were not to succeed, "he should think it no longer reasonable to expect fame from excellence." And Mr. Wordsworth appears to have been very much of the same opinion:

"Bard of The Fleece,' whose skillful genius made
That work a living landscape, fair and bright,

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Though party Fame hath many a chaplet culled
For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,
Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,
A grateful few shall love thy modest lay,
Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray
O'er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste-
Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill."

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