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It's

very hush and creeping
Seem whispering us a smile :
Something divine and dim
Seems going by one's ear,

Like parting wings of Seraphim,

Who say,

"We 've finished here."

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AH little ranting Johnny,
For ever blithe and bonny,
And singing nonny, nonny,
With hat just thrown upon ye;
Or whistling like the thrushes
With voice in silver gushes;
Or twisting random posies
With daisies, weeds, and roses;
And strutting in and out so,
Or dancing all about so,
With cock-up nose so lightsome,
And sidelong eyes so brightsome,
And cheeks as ripe as apples,
And head as rough as Dapple's,
And arms as sunny shining
As if their veins they 'd wine in ;

And mouth that smiles so truly,
Heav'n seems to have made it newly,
It breaks into such sweetness
With merry-lipp'd completeness
Ah Jack, ah Gianni mio,
As blithe as Laughing Trio,
-Sir Richard, too, you rattler,
So christened from the Tatler,-
My Bacchus in his glory,
My little Cor-di-fiori,

My tricksome Puck, my Robin,
Who in and out come bobbing,
As full of feints and frolic as
That fibbing rogue Autolycus,
And play the graceless robber on
Your grave-eyed brother Oberon,-
Ah! Dick, ah Dolce-riso,
How can you, can you be so ?

One cannot turn a minute,
But mischief-there you 're in it,
A getting at my books, John,
With mighty bustling looks, John;
Or poking at the roses,

In midst of which your nose is;
Or climbing on a table,

No matter how unstable,

And turning up your quaint eye

And half-shut teeth with "Mayn't I?" Or else you 're off at play, John,

Just as you'd be all day, John,

With hat or not, as happens,

And there you dance, and clap hands,
Or on the grass go rolling,

Or plucking flow'rs, or bowling,
And getting me expenses
With losing balls o'er fences;
Or, as the constant trade is,
Are fondled by the ladies

With "What a young rogue this is !"
Reforming him with kisses;
Till suddenly you cry out,
As if you had an eye out,
So desperately tearful,
The sound is really fearful;
When lo! directly after,
It bubbles into laughter.

Ah rogue! and do you know, John,
Why 'tis we love you so, John?
And how it is they let ye

Do what you like and pet ye,
Though all who look upon ye,
Exclaim "Ah, Johnny, Johnny!"
It is because you please 'em
Still more, John, than you teaze 'em ;
Because, too, when not present,
The thought of you is pleasant;
Because, though such an elf, John,
They think that if yourself, John,
Had something to condemn too;
You'd be as kind to them too,
In short, because you 're very
Good-temper'd, Jack, and merry;
And are as quick at giving,
As easy at receiving;

And in the midst of pleasure
Are certain to find leisure
To think, my boy, of ours,
And bring us lumps of flowers.

But see, the sun shines brightly;
Come, put your hat on rightly,
And we'll among the bushes,
And hear your friends the thrushes;
And see what flow'rs the weather
Has render'd fit to gather;

And, when we home must jog, you
Shall ride my back, you rogue you,
Your hat adorn'd with fine leaves,
Horse-chestnut, oak, and vine-leaves;
And so, with green o'erhead, John,
Shall whistle home to bed, John.

SUDDEN FINE WEATHER.

READER! what soul that loves a verse, can see The spring return, nor glow like you and me ? Hear the quick birds, and see the landscape fill, Nor long to utter his melodious will?

This, more than ever, leaps into the veins, When spring has been delay'd by winds and rains, And coming with a burst, comes like a show, Blue all above, and basking green below. And all the people culling the sweet prime: Then issues forth the bee to clutch the thyme, And the bee poet rushes into rhyme.

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For lo! no sooner has the cold withdrawn, Than the bright elm is tufted on the lawn; The merry sap has run up in the bowers, And burst the windows of the buds in flowers; With song the bosoms of the birds run o'er, The cuckoo calls, the swallow 's at the door, And apple-trees at noon, with bees alive, Burn with the golden chorus of the hive. Now all these sweets, these sounds, this vernal blaze, Is but one joy, express'd a thousand ways: And honey from the flowers, and song from birds, Are from the poet's pen his overflowing words.

Ah friends! methinks it were a pleasant sphere, If, like the trees, we blossom'd every year; If locks grew thick again, and rosy dyes Return'd in cheeks, and raciness in eyes, And all around us, vital to the tips, The human orchard laugh'd with cherry lips!

Lord! what a burst of merriment and play, Fair dames, were that! and what a first of May!

So natural is the wish, that bards gone by Have left it, all, in some immortal sigh !

And yet the winter months were not so well : Who would like changing, as the seasons fell? Fade every year; and stare, midst ghastly friends, With falling hairs, and stuck-out fingers' ends? Besides, this tale of youth that comes again, Is no more true of apple-trees than men. The Swedish sage, the Newton of the flow'rs, Who first found out those worlds of paramours, Tells us, that every blossom that we see Boasts in its walls a separate family; So that a tree is but a sort of stand, That holds those filial fairies in its hand; Just as Swift's giant might have held a bevy Of Lilliputian ladies, or a levee.

It is not he that blooms: it is his race,

Who honour his old arms, and hide his rugged face.

Ye wits and bards then, pray discern your duty, And learn the lastingness of human beauty. Your finest fruit to some two months may reach : I've known a cheek at forty like a peach.

Here's a bee

But see the weather calls me.
Comes bounding in my room imperiously,
And talking to himself, hastily burns
About mine ear, and so in heat returns.

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