XVIII.

=THE CALENDAR.=

THE OPENING YEAR.

JANUARY.

Orphan hours, the year is dead, Come and sigh, come and weep! Merry hours smile instead, For the year is but asleep. See! it smiles as it is sleeping, Mocking your untimely weeping.

As an earthquake rocks a corse In its coffin in the clay, So white winter, that rough nurse, Rocks the dead-cold year to-day; Solemn hours! wail aloud For your mother in her shroud.

As the wild air stirs and sways The tree-swung cradle of a child,

So the breath of these rude days Rocks the year: be calm and mild, Trembling hours; she will arise With new love within her eyes.

January gray is here, Like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier— March, with grief, doth howl and rave; And April weeps—but, O ye hours! Follow with May’s fairest flowers. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 1792–1822.

ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM

ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY.

Sweet flower! that peeping from thy russet stem, Unfoldest timidly (for in strange sort This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering month Hath borrowed Zephyr’s voice, and gazed on thee With blue, voluptuous eye); alas, poor flower! These are but flatteries of the faithless year, Perchance escaped its unknown polar cave. E’en now the keen north-east is on its way, Flower thou must perish! Shall I liken thee To some sweet girl of too, too rapid growth? SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE, 1770–1849.

FEBRUARY.

Dip down upon the northern shore, O sweet new year, delaying long, Thou dost expectant nature wrong, Delaying long, delay no more.

What stays thee from the clouded noons, Thy sweetness from its proper place? Can trouble live with April days, Or sadness in the summer noons?

Bring orchis—bring the fox-glove spire, The little speedwell’s darling blue, Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew, Laburnums dropping wells of fire.

O thou new year, delaying long, Delayest the sorrow in my blood, That longs to burst a frozen bud, And flood a fresher throat of song. ALFRED TENNYSON.

[Illustration: [Pastoral Scene]]

MARCH.

The stormy March is come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast, That through the valley flies.

Ah, passing few are they who speak, Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee! Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak, Thou art a welcome month to me.

For thou to northern lands again The glad and glorious sun dost bring, And thou hast joined the gentler train, And wear’st the gentle name of Spring.

And in thy reign of blast and storm Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, When the changed winds are soft and warm, And heaven puts on the blue of May.

Then sing aloud the gushing rills, And the full springs, from frost set free, That, brightly leaping down the hills, Are just set out to meet the sea.

The year’s departing beauty hides Of wintry storms the sullen threat; But in thy sternest form abides A look of kindly promise yet.

Thou bring’st the hope of those calm skies, And that soft time of sunny showers, When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, Seems of a brighter world than ours. W. C. BRYANT.

APRIL.

All day the low hung clouds have dropped Their garnered fullness down; All day that soft gray mist hath wrapped Hill, valley, grove, and town.

There has not been a sound to-day To break the calm of nature; Nor motion, I might almost say, Of life or living creature;

Of waving bough, or warbling bird, Or cattle faintly lowing— I could have half believed I heard The leaves and blossoms growing.

For leafy thickness is not yet Earth’s naked breast to screen, Though every dripping branch is set With shoots of tender green.

Sure, since I looked at early morn, These honeysuckle buds Have swelled to double growth; that thorn Hath put forth larger studs;

That lilac’s cleaving cones have burst, The milk-white flowers revealing; Even now upon my senses first, Methinks their sweets are stealing

The very earth, the steaming air, Is all with fragrance rife; And grace and beauty everywhere Are flushing into life.

Down, down they come—those fruitful stores! Those earth-rejoicing drops! A momentary deluge pours, Then thins, decreases, stops.

And ere the dimples on the stream, Have circled out of sight, Lo! from the west a parting gleam Breaks forth of amber light.

But yet, behold! abrupt and loud, Comes down the glittering rain; The farewell of a passing cloud, The fringes of her train. H. W. LONGFELLOW.

APRIL.

FROM THE FRENCH.

April, season blest and dear, Hope of the reviving year; Promise of bright fruits that lie In their downy canopy, Till the nipping winds are past, And their vails aside are cast! April, who delight’st to spread O’er the emerald-laughing mead Flowers of fresh and brilliant dyes, Rich in wild embroideries! April, who each zephyr’s sigh Dost with perfumed breath supply, When they through the forest rove, Spreading wily nets of love, That, for lovely Flora made, May detain her in the shade! April, by thy hand caressed, Nature, from her genial breast, Loves her richest gifts to shower, And awakes her magic power, Till all earth and air are rife With delight, and hope, and life!

April, nymph forever fair, On my mistress’ sunny hair, Scattering wreaths of odors sweet, For her snowy bosom meet! April, full of smiles and grace, Drawn from Venus’ dwelling-place; Thou, from earth’s enamel’d plain, Yield’st the gods their breath again. ’Tis thy courteous hand doth bring Back the messenger of spring; And his tedious exile o’er, Hail’st the swallow’s wing once more.

The eglantine, the hawthorn bright, The thyme and pink, and jasmine white, Don their purest robes to be Guests, fair April, worthy thee.

The nightingale—sweet hidden sound! 'Midst the clustering boughs around, Charms to silence notes that wake Soft discourse from bush and brake, And bids every listening thing Pause awhile to hear her sing.

’Tis to thy return we owe Love’s fond sighs, that learn to glow After winter’s chilling reign Long has bound them in her chain. ’Tis thy smile to being warms All the busy, shining swarms, Which, on perfumed pillage bent, Fly from flower to flower intent, Till they load their golden thighs With the treasure each supplies.

May may boast her ripened hues, Richer fruits, and flowers, and dews, And those glowing charms that well All the happy world can tell; But, sweet April, thou shalt be Still a chosen month for me.

* * * * * _Translation of_ MISS COSTELLO. REMI BELLEAU, 1528–1577.

ODE TO FIRST OF APRIL.

* * * * *

Mindful of disaster past, And shrinking at the northern blast, The sleety storm returning still, The morning hoar, and evening chill, Reluctant comes the timid spring. Scarce a bee, with airy ring, Murmurs the blossom’d boughs around, That clothe the garden’s southern bound; Scarce a sickly, straggling flower Decks the rough castle’s rifted tower;

Scarce the hardy primrose peeps From the dark dell’s entangled steeps; O’er the fields of waving broom Slowly shoots the golden bloom; And, but by fits, the furze-clad dale Tinctures the transitory gale; While from the shrubbery’s naked maze, Where the vegetable blaze Of Flora’s brightest 'broidery shone, Every checker’d charm is flown; Save that the lilac hangs to view Its bursting gems in clusters blue. Scant along the ridgy land The beans their new-born ranks expand; The fresh-turn’d soil, with tender blades, Thinly the sprouting barley shades: Fringing the forest’s devious edge, Half-rob’d appears the hawthorn hedge; Or to the distant eye displays, Weakly green its budding sprays. The swallow, for a moment seen, Skims in haste the village green; From the gray moor, on feeble wing, The screaming plovers idly spring; The butterfly, gay-painted, soon Explores awhile the tepid noon, And fondly trusts its tender dyes To fickle suns and flattering skies. Fraught with a transient, frozen shower, If a cloud should haply lower, Sailing o’er the landscape dark, Mute on a sudden is the lark; But when gleams the sun again O’er the pearl-besprinkled plain, And from behind his watery vail, Looks through the thin descending hail; She mounts, and, lessening to the sight, Salutes the blithe return of light; And high her tuneful track pursues, 'Mid the dim rainbow’s scattered hues. Where, in venerable rows, Widely-waving oaks disclose The moat of yonder antique hall, Swarm the rooks with clamorous call; And to the toils of nature true,

Wreath their capacious nests anew. Musing through the lawny park, The lonely poet loves to mark How various greens in faint degrees Tinge the tall groups of various trees; While, careless of the changing year, The pine cerulean, never sere, Towers distinguish’d from the rest, And proudly vaunts her winter vest. Within some whispering osier isle, Where Glynn’s low banks neglected smile, And each trim meadow still retains The wintry torrent’s oozy stains, Beneath a willow, long forsook, The fisher seeks his 'custom’d nook; And bursting through the crackling sedge, That crowns the current’s cavern’d edge, He startles from the bordering wood The bashful wild-duck’s early brood. O’er the broad downs, a novel race, Frisk the lambs with faltering pace, And with eager bleatings fill The foss that skirts the beacon’d hill. His free-born vigor, yet unbroke, To lordly man’s usurping yoke, The bounding colt forgets to play, Basking beneath the noontide ray, And stretch’d among the daisies pied, Of a green dingle’s sloping side; While far beneath, where Nature spreads Her boundless length of level meads, In loose luxuriance taught to stray, A thousand tumbling rills inlay With silver veins the vale, or pass Redundant through the sparkling grass.

* * * * *

THOMAS WARTON, 1728–1790.

APRIL.

Lessons sweet of spring returning, Welcome to the thoughtful heart! May I call ye sense or learning, Instinct pure, or heav’n-taught heart?

Be your title what it may, Sweet and lengthening April day, While with you the soul is free, Ranging wild o’er hill and lea;

Soft as Memnon’s harp at morning, To the inward ear devout, Touch’d by light with heavenly warning, Your transporting chords ring out. Every leaf in every nook, Every wave in every brook, Chanting with a solemn voice, Minds us of our better choice.

Needs no show of mountain hoary, Winding shore or deepening glen, Where the landscape in its glory, Teaches truth to wandering men. Give true hearts but earth and sky, And some flowers to bloom and die; Homely scenes and simple views, Lowly thoughts may best infuse.

See the soft green willow springing Where the waters gently pass, Every way her free arms flinging O’er the moss and reedy grass. Long ere winter blasts are fled, See her tipp’d with vernal red, And her kindly flower display’d Ere her leaf can cast a shade.

Though the rudest hand assail her, Patiently she droops awhile, But when showers and breezes hail her, Wears again her willing smile. Thus I learn Contentment’s power From the slighted willow bower, Ready to give thanks and live, On the least that Heaven may give.

If, the quiet brooklet leaving, Up the stormy vale I wind, Haply half in fancy grieving For the shades I leave behind,

By the dusty wayside dear, Nightingales with joyous cheer Sing, my sadness to reprove, Gladlier than in cultur’d grove.

Where the thickest boughs are twining Of the greenest, darkest tree, There they plunge, the light declining— All may hear, but none may see. Fearless of the passing hoof, Hardly will they fleet aloof; So they live in modest ways, Trust entire, and ceaseless praise. JOHN KEBLE.

MAY.

Oh, the merry May has pleasant hours, And dreamingly they glide, As if they floated like the leaves Upon a silver tide. The trees are full of crimson buds, And the woods are full of birds, And the waters flow to music, Like a tune with pleasant words.

The verdure of the meadow-land Is creeping to the hills; The sweet, blue-bosom’d violets Are blowing by the rills; The lilac has a load of balm For every wind that stirs, And the larch stands green and beautiful, Amid the somber firs.

There’s perfume upon every wind— Music in every tree— Dews for the moisture-loving flowers— Sweets for the sucking bee; The sick come forth for the healing South; The young are gathering flowers; And life is a tale of poetry, That is told by golden hours.

If ’tis not a true philosophy, That the spirit, when set free, Still lingers about its olden home, In the flower and in the tree, It is very strange that our pulses thrill At the sight of a voiceless thing, And our hearts yearn so with tenderness In the beautiful time of spring. N. P. WILLIS.

JUNE.

SUMMER.

The summer-time has come again, With all its light and mirth, And June leads on the laughing hours To bless the weary earth.

The sunshine lies along the street, So dim and cold before, And in the open window creeps, And slumbers on the floor.

The country was so fresh and fine, And beautiful in May, It must be more than beautiful— A Paradise to-day!

If I were only there again, I’d seek the lanes apart, And shout aloud in mighty words, To ease my happy heart. R. H. STODDARD.

JULY.

Loud is the summer’s busy song, The smallest breeze can find a tongue, While insects of each tiny size Grow teasing with their melodies, Till noon burns with its blistering breath Around, and day dies still as death. The busy noise of man and brute Is on a sudden lost and mute;

Even the brook that leaps along, Seems weary of its bubbling song, And so soft its waters creep, Tired silence sinks in sounder sleep; The cricket on its bank is dumb, The very flies forget to hum; And, save the wagon rocking round, The landscape sleeps without a sound. The breeze is stopp’d, the lazy bough Hath not a leaf that danceth now; The taller grass upon the hill, And spider’s threads are standing still; The feathers dropp’d from moorhen’s wing, Which to the water’s surface cling, Are steadfast, and as heavy seem, As stones beneath them in the stream; Hawkweed and groundsel’s fanny downs Unruffled keep their seedy crowns; And in the oven-heated air Not one light thing is floating there, Save that to the earnest eye The restless heat seems twittering by. Noon swoons beneath the heat it made, And flowers e’en within the shade, Until the sun slopes in the west Like weary traveler, glad to rest On pillow’d clouds of many hues; Then Nature’s voice its joy renews, And checkered field and grassy plain, Hum with their summer songs again, A requiem to the day’s decline, Whose setting sunbeams coolly shine, As welcome to day’s feeble powers, As falling dews to thirsty flowers. JOHN CLARE.

AUGUST.

SONNET.

A power is on the earth and in the air, From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid, And shelters him in nooks of deepest shade, From the hot steam, and from the fiery glare. Look forth upon the earth—her thousand plants

Are smitten; even the dark sun-loving maize Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze The herd beside the shaded fountain pants; For life is driven from all the landscape brown; The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den, The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men Drop by the sun-stroke in the populous town, As if the Day of Fire had dawned and sent Its deadly breath into the firmament. W. C. BRYANT.

AUGUST.

An August day! a dreamy haze Films air, and mingles with the skies, Sweetly the rich, dark sunshine plays, Bronzing each object where it lies. Outlines are melted in the gauze That Nature vails; the fitful breeze From the thick pine low murmuring draws, Then dies in flutterings midst the trees. The bee is slumbering in the thistle, And, now and then, a broken whistle, A tread—a hum—a tap—is heard Through the dry leaves, in grass and bush, As insect, animal, and bird Rouse brief from their lethargic hush. Then e’en these pleasant sounds would cease, And a dread stillness all things lock: The aspen seem like sculptured rock, And not a tassel thread be shaken, The monarch pine’s deep trance to waken, And Nature settle prone in drowsy peace. The misty blue—the distant masses, The air in woven purple glimmering The shiver transiently that passes Over the leaves, as though each tree Gave one brief sigh—the slumberous shimmering Of the red light—invested seem With some sweet charm, that soft, serene, Mellows the gold—the blue—the green Into mild temper’d harmony, And melts the sounds that intervene, As scarce to break the quiet, till we deem Nature herself transform’d to Fancy’s dream. ALFRED STREET.

SEPTEMBER.

The meridian sun, Most sweetly smiling with attemper’d beams, Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth; Beneath its yellow luster groves and woods, Checker’d by one night’s frost with various hues, While yet no wind has swept a leaf away, Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues, The yellow, red, or purple of the trees That, singly, or in tufts, or forests thick, Adorn the shores; to see, perhaps, the side Of some high mount reflected far below, With its bright colors, intermixed with spots Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad To wander in the open fields, and hear, E’en at this hour, the noonday hardly past, The lulling insects of the summer’s night; To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard, A lonely bee, long roving here and there To find a single flower, but all in vain; Then rising quick, and with a louder hum, In widening circles round and round his head, Straight by the listener flying clear away, As if to bid the fields a last adieu; To hear, within the woodland’s sunny side, Late full of music, nothing, save perhaps The sound of nutshells, by the squirrel dropp’d From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves. CARLOS WILCOX, 1794–1827.

OCTOBER.

A SONNET.

Ay, thou art welcome, Heaven’s delicious breath, When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, And the year smiles as it draws near its death. Wind of the sunny south! oh still delay In the gay woods and in the golden air, Like to a good old age released from care,

Journeying, in long serenity, away. In such a bright, late quiet, would that I Might wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks, And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, And music of kind voices ever nigh; And when my last sand twinkled in the glass Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

NOVEMBER.

A SONNET.

Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun! One mellow smile through the soft vapory air, Ere, o’er the frozen earth, the loud winds run, Or snows are sifted o’er the meadows bare. One smile on the brown hills and naked trees, And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast, And the blue gentian flower, that, in the breeze Nods lonely, of the beauteous race the last. Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, The cricket chirp upon the russet lea, And men delight to linger in thy ray. Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air. WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

NOVEMBER.

November’s sky is chill and drear, November’s leaf is red and sree; Late, gazing down the steepy linn, That hems our little garden in, Low in its dark and narrow glen, You scarce the rivulet might ken, So thick the tangled greenwood grew, So feeble trill’d the streamlet through; Now murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen Through bush and brier, no longer green, An angry brook, it sweeps the glade, Brawls over rock and wild cascade, And, foaming brown with double speed, Hurries its waters to the Tweed.

No longer Autumn’s glowing red Upon our forest hills is shed; No more, beneath the evening beam, Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam; Away hath pass’d the heather-bells, That bloom’d so rich on Needpath-fell, Sallow his brow, and russet bare, Are now the sister heights of Yair. The sheep, before the pinching heaven, To shelter’d dale and down are driven, Where yet some faded herbage pines, And yet a watery sunbeam shines; In meek despondency they eye The withered sward and wintry sky, And far beneath their summer hill, Stray sadly by Glenkinnon’s rill: The shepherd shifts his mantle’s fold, And wraps him closer from the cold; His dogs no merry circles wheel, But, shivering, follow at his heel; A cowering glance they often cast, As deeper moans the gathering blast. SIR WALTER SCOTT.

NOVEMBER IN ENGLAND.

No sun—no moon! No morn—no noon— No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day— No sky—no earthly view— No distance, looking blue— No road—no street—no t’other side the way— No end to any “row”— No indications where the “crescents” No top to any steeple— No recognitions of familiar people— No courtesies for showing ’em— No knowing ’em!— No traveling at all—no locomotion— No inkling of the way—no notion— “No go,” by land or ocean— No mail—no post— No news from any foreign coast—

No park, no ring—no afternoon gentility— No company, or nobility— No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member— No shade—no shine—no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds. November! T. HOOD.

SONNET.

NOVEMBER, 1792.

There is strange music in the stirring wind When lowers the autumnal eve, and all alone To the dark wood’s cold covert thou art gone, Whose ancient trees on the rough slope-reclined Rock, and at times scatter their tresses sear. If in such shades, beneath their murmuring, Thou late hast pass’d the happier hours of spring, With sadness thou wilt mark the fading year; Chiefly if one, with whom such sweets at morn Or eve thou’st shared, to distant scenes shall stray. O spring, return! return, auspicious May! But sad will be thy coming, and forlorn, If she return not with thy cheering ray, Who from these shades is gone, gone far away! REV. WILLIAM L. BOWLES.

SONG.

DECEMBER.