III.

=Spring.=

Giles Fletcher is one of the old English poets but little known to the general reader in America. And yet he was the author of a poem of high merit. He was born about twenty years after Shakspeare, or in 1588, and came of a family marked by great poetical talent. John Fletcher, the celebrated dramatist and fellow-laborer of Beaumont, was a cousin, and it was his elder brother, Phineas Fletcher, who wrote “The Purple Island,” that singular and elaborate poetical allegory, carried out through twelve cantos, and relieved by much occasional beauty of thought and style. The father also, Dr. Giles Fletcher, has been ranked among the good poets of his day. The only work of Giles Fletcher, the son, which has been published, is of a religious character, “Christ’s Victory and Triumph,” a poem in four parts. It has never been reprinted entire in America, though full of fine passages, and marked throughout with originality and beauty. The

subjects are of course very much of the same nature as those of “Paradise Regained;” a comparison of the two poems, however, by no means diminishes our admiration for the work of Fletcher, especially when we bear in mind that he wrote half a century before Milton. In fact, “Christ’s Victory and Triumph” was, at the time it appeared, the finest sacred poem of any length in our language; it is full of a jubilant poetical eloquence and the earnest expression of strong religious feeling connected with the subject. Giles Fetcher, like his brother Phineas, was a clergyman of the Church of England, and led an uneventful life in his country parish of Alderton, Suffolk, where he died in 1623.

A description of Spring at Easter will, it is hoped, give the reader pleasure.

THE RETURN OF SPRING IN GREECE.

FROM THE GREEK OF MELEAGER, 100 B. C.

Hush’d is the howl of wintry breezes wild; The purple hour of youthful spring has smiled: A livelier verdure clothes the teeming earth; Buds press to life, rejoicing in their birth; The laughing meadows drink the dews of night, And fresh with opening roses glad the sight: In song the joyous swains responsive vie; Wild music floats and mountain melody. Adventurous seamen spread the embosomed sail O’er waves light heaving to the western gale; While village youths their brows with ivy twine, And hail with song the promise of the vine. In curious cells the bees digest their spoil, When vernal sunshine animates their toil, And little birds, in warblings sweet and clear, Salute thee, Maia, loveliest of the year: Thee, on their deeps, the tuneful halcyons hail, In streams the swan, in woods the nightingale. If earth rejoices with new verdure gay, And shepherds pipe, and flocks exulting play, And sailors roam, and Bacchus leads his throng, And bees to toil, and birds awake to song, Shall the glad bard be mute in tuneful spring, And, warm with love and joy, forget to sing? _Translation of_ ROBERT BLAND.

SPRING.

FROM THE GREEK OF ANACREON.

Behold the young, the rosy spring, Gives to the breeze her scented wing, While virgin graces, warm with May, Fling roses o’er her dewy way. The murmuring billows of the deep Have languished into silent sleep. And mark! the flitting sea-birds lave Their plumes in the reflecting wave; While cranes from hoary winter fly To flutter in a kinder sky. Now the genial star of day Dissolves the murky clouds away, And cultured field and winding stream Are freshly glittering in his beam. Now the earth prolific swells With leafy buds and flow’ry bells; Gemming shoots the olive twine, Clusters bright festoon the vine; All along the branches creeping, Through the velvet foliage peeping, Little infant fruits we see Nursing into luxury. _Translation of_ T. MOORE.

DESCRIPTION OF SPRING.

The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale, The nightingale with feathers new she sings; The turtle to her mate hath told her tale. Summer is come, for every spray now springs; The hart hath hung his old head on the pale, The buck in brake his winter coat he flings; The fishes flete with new repaired scale; The adder all her slough away she flings; The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale; The busy bee her honey now she mings; Winter is worn that was the flowers’ bale. And thus I see among these pleasant things Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs. HENRY HOWARD, Earl of Surrey, 1516–1547.

SPRING.

FROM THE “THISTLE AND THE ROSE.”

Quhen Merche wes with variand windis past, And Appryll had with hir silver shouris Tane leif at Nature, with ane orient blast, And lusty May, that muddir is of flouris, Had maid the birdis to begyn thair houris, Amang the tendir odouris reid and quhyt Quhois harmony to heir it was delyt: In bed at morrow sleiping as I lay, Methocht Aurora, with her crystall ene In at the window lukit by the day, And halsit me with visage pale and grene; On quhois hand a lark sang, fro the splene, “Awak, luvaris, out of your slemering, Se how the lusty morrow dois upspring!”

Methocht fresche May befoir my bed upstude, In weid depaynt of mony diverse hew, Sober, benyng, and full of mansuetude, In bright atteir of flouris forgit new, Hevinly of color, quhyt, reid, brown, and blew, Balmit in dew, and gilt with Phebus’ bemys; Quhil al the house illumynit of her lemys. WILLIAM DUNBAR, 1465–1530.

ON SPRING.

Sweet Spring, thou com’st with all thy goodly train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow’rs, The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show’rs. Sweet Spring, thou com’st—but, ah! my pleasant hours And happy days with thee come not again; The sad memorials only of my pain Do with thee come, which turns my sweets to sours. Thou art the same which still thou wert before, Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair; But she whose breath embalm’d thy wholesome air Is gone; nor gold, nor gems, can her restore. Neglected virtues, seasons go and come, When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.

What doth it serve to see the sun’s bright face, And skies enamell’d with the Indian gold? Or the moon in a fierce chariot roll’d, And all the glory of that starry place? What doth it serve earth’s beauty to behold, The mountain’s pride, the meadow’s flow’ry grace, The stately comeliness of forests old, The sport of floods which would themselves embrace? What doth it serve to hear the sylvans’ songs, The cheerful thrush, the nightingale’s sad strains, Which in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs? For what doth serve all that this world contains, Since she for whom those once to me were dear, Can have no part of them now with me here? WILLIAM DRUMMOND, 1585–1649.

SONNET ON SPRING.

FROM THE FRENCH.

Now Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and cold, and rain, And clothes him in the embroidery Of glittering sun, and clear, blue sky. With beast and bird the forest rings, Each in his jargon cries or sings; And Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and cold, and rain. River and fount, and tinkling brook, Wear in their dainty livery Drops of silver jewelry; In new-made suit they merry look; And Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and cold, and rain. CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS, 1391.

SPRING, AT EASTER.

FROM “CHRIST’S TRIUMPH AND VICTORY.”

But now the second morning from her bower, Began to glister in her beams; and now The roses of the day began to flower In the Eastern garden; for heaven’s smiling brow, Half insolent for joy, began to show: The early sun came dancing lively out, And the brag lambs ran wantoning about, That heaven and earth might seem in triumph both to shout.

The engladdened Spring, forgetful now to weep, Began to eblazon from her leafy bed; The waking swallow broke her half-year’s sleep, And every bush lay deeply purpured With violets; the woods’ late wintry head Wide flaming primroses set all on fire, And his bald trees put on their green attire, Among whose infant leaves the joyous birds conspire.

And now the taller sons, whom Titan warms, Of unshorn mountains, blown with easy winds, Dandled the morning’s childhood in their arms; And, if they chanced to slip the prouder pines, The under corylass[8] did catch the shines, To gild their leaves: saw ne’er happier year Such triumph and triumphant cheer, As though the aged world anew created were.

Say, Earth, why hast thou got thee new attire, And stick’st thy habit full of daisies red? Seems that thou dost to some high thought aspire, And some new-found-out bridegroom mean’st to wed: Tell me, ye trees, so fresh apparelled— So never let the spiteful canker waste you, So never let the heavens with lightning blast you! Why go you now so trimly drest, or whither haste you?

Answer me, Jordan, why thy crooked tide So often wanders from his nearest way, As though some other way thy streams would slide, And join salute the place where something lay? And you, sweet birds, that, shaded from the ray, Sit carolling, and piping grief away, The while the lambs to hear you dance and play— Tell me, sweet birds, what is it you so fain would say?

And thou, fair spouse of Earth, that every year Gett’st such a numerous issue of thy bride, How chance thou hotter shin’st, and draw’st more near? Sure thou somewhere some worthy sight hast spied, That in one place for joy thou canst not bide: And you, dead swallows, that so lively now, Through the slit air your winged passage row; How could new life into your frozen ashes flow?

Ye primroses and purple violets, Tell me, why blaze ye from your leafy bed, And woo men’s hands to rent you from your sets, As though you would somewhere be carried, With fresh perfumes and velvets garnished? But ah! I need not ask; ’tis surely so; You all would to your Saviour’s triumph go: There would you all await, and humble homage do.

There should the Earth herself, with garlands new, And lovely flowers embellish’d adore: Such roses never in her garland grew; Such lilies never in her breast she wore; Like beauty never yet did shine before. There should the Sun another Sun behold, From whence himself borrows his locks of gold, That kindle Heaven and Earth with beauties manifold.

There might the violet and primrose sweet, Beams of more lively and more lovely grace, Arising from their beds of incense, meet; There should the swallow see new life embrace Dead ashes, and the grave unvail his face, To let the living from his bowels creep, Unable longer his own dead to keep; There Heaven and Earth should see their Lord awake from sleep.

* * * * *

“Toss up your heads, ye everlasting gates, And let the Prince of Glory enter in! At whose brave volley of sidereal states, The sun to blush, and stars grow pale, were seen; When leaping first from earth, he did begin To climb his angel wings: then open hang Your crystal doors!” so all the chorus sang Of heavenly birds, as to the stars they nimbly sprang.

Hark! how the floods clap their applauding hands, The pleasant valleys singing for delight; The wanton mountains dance about the lands, The while the fields, struck with the heavenly light, Set all their flowers a smiling at the sight; The trees laugh with their blossoms, and the sound Of the triumphant shout of praise, that crown’d The flaming Lamb, breaking through heaven, hath passage found. GILES FLETCHER, 1588–1623.

THE AIRS OF SPRING.

Sweetly breathing, vernal air, That with kind warmth doth repair Winter’s ruins; from whose breast All the gums and spice of th’ East Borrow their perfumes; whose eye Gilds the morn, and clears the sky; Whose disheveled tresses shed Pearls upon the violet bed; On whose brow, with calm smiles drest, The halcyon sits and builds her nest; Beauty, youth, and endless spring, Dwell upon thy rosy wing!

Thou, if stormy Boreas throws Down whole forests when he blows, With a pregnant, flowery birth, Canst refresh the teeming earth. If he nip the early bud; If he blast what’s fair or good; If he scatter our choice flowers; If he shake our halls or bowers; If his rude breath threaten us, Thou canst stroke great Æolus, And from him the grace obtain, To bind him in an iron chain. THOMAS CAREW, 1600.

RETURN OF SPRING.

FROM THE FRENCH.

God shield ye, heralds of the spring, Ye faithful swallows, fleet of wing, Houps, cuckoos, nightingales, Turtles, and every wilder bird, That make your hundred chirpings heard Through the green woods and dales.

God shield ye, Easter daisies all, Fair roses, buds, and blossoms small, And he whom erst the gore Of Ajax and Narciss did print, Ye wild thyme, anise, balm, and mint, I welcome ye once more.

God shield ye, bright embroider’d train Of butterflies, that on the plain, Of each sweet herblet sip; And ye, new swarms of bees, that go Where the pink flowers and yellow grow To kiss them with your lip.

A hundred thousand times I call— A hearty welcome on ye all: This season how I love! This merry din on every shore, For winds and storms, whose sullen roar Forbade my steps to rove. 0_Anonymous Translation._ PIERRE RONSARD, 1524–1586.

ODE TO SPRING.

Sweet daughter of a rough and stormy sire, Hoar Winter’s blooming child—delightful Spring! Whose unshorn locks with leaves And swelling buds are crown’d;

From the green islands of eternal youth, Crown’d with fresh blooms and ever-springing shade, Turn, thither turn thy step, O thou whose powerful voice,

More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed, Or Lydian flute, can soothe the madding wind, And through the stormy deep Breathe thine own tender calm.

Thee, best beloved! the virgin train await With songs, and festal rites, and joy to rove Thy blooming wilds among, And vales and dewy lawns,

With untired feet; and cull thy earliest sweets To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow Of him, the favored youth, That prompts their whispered sigh.

Unlock thy copious stores—those tender showers That drop their sweetness on the infant buds; And silent dews that swell The milky ear’s green stem,

And feed the flowering osier’s early shoots; And call those winds which through the whispering boughs With warm and pleasant breath Salute the blowing flowers.

Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn, And mark thy spreading tints steal o’er the dale; And watch with patient eye, Thy fair, unfolding charms.

O nymph, approach! while yet the temperate sun With bashful forehead through the cold, moist air, Throws his young maiden beams, And with chaste kisses woos

The earth’s fair bosom; while the streaming vail Of lucid clouds, with kind and frequent shade Protects thy modest blooms From his severer blaze.

Sweet is thy reign, but short; the red dog-star Shall scorch thy tresses; and the mower’s scythe Thy greens, thy flowerets all, Remorseless shall destroy,

Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell; For O, not all that Autumn’s lap contains Nor Summer’s ruddiest fruits Can aught for thee atone,

Fair Spring! whose simplest promise more delights Than all their largest wealth, and through the heart Each joy and new-born hope With softest influence breathes. ANNE LETITIA BARBAULD, 1743–1825.

THE FLOWER.

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are thy returns! ev’n as the flow’rs in spring; To which, besides their own demean, The late past frost’s tributes of pleasure bring: Grief melts away, Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing.

Who would have thought my shrivel’d heart Could have recover’d greenness? It was gone Quite under ground, as flowers depart To see their mother-root, when they have blown; Where they together, All the hard weather, Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

These are thy wonders, Lord of power! Thrilling and quick’ning, bringing down to hell, And up to heaven in an hour; Making a chiming of a passing bell. We say amiss, This or that is: Thy word is all, if we would spell.

Oh, that I once past changing were Fast in thy Paradise, where no flow’r can wither! Many a spring I shot up fair, Offering at heav’n, growing and groaning thither: Nor doth my flower Want a spring-shower, My sins and I joining together.

But while I grow in a straight line, Still upward bent, as if heav’n were mine own, Thy anger comes, and I decline: What frost to that? What pole is not the zone, Where all things burn, When thou dost turn, And the least frown of thine is shown?

And now in age I bud again; After so many deaths I live and write, I once more smell the dew and rain, And relish versing. O, my only light, It can not be, That I am he, On whom thy tempests fell all night!

These are thy wonders, Lord of love! To make us see we are but flow’rs that glide; Which, when we once can find and prove, Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide. Who would be more, Swelling through store, Forfeit their Paradise by their pride, GEORGE HERBERT, 1598–1632.

ODE.

FROM THE TURKISH.

Hear! how the nightingales on every spray, Hail, in wild notes, the sweet return of May: The gale, that o’er yon waving almond blows, The verdant bank with silver blossoms strews; The smiling season decks each flowery glade. Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

What gales of fragrance scent the vernal air! Hills, dales, and woods their loveliest mantles wear, Who knows what cares await that fatal day, When ruder guests shall banish gentle May? E’en death, perhaps, our valleys will invade. Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

The tulip now its varied hue displays, And sheds, like Ahmed’s eye, celestial rays. Ah! nature, ever faithful, ever true, The joys of youth, while May invites, pursue! Will not these notes your timorous minds persuade? Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

The sparkling dew-drops o’er the lilies play, Like orient pearls, or like the beams of day. If love and mirth your idle thoughts engage, Attend, ye nymphs! a poet’s words are sage. While thus you sit beneath the trembling shade, Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

The fresh-blown rose, like Zeineb’s cheek appears, When pearls, like dew-drops, glitter in her ears. The charms of youth at once are seen and past, And Nature says, “They are too sweet to last.” So blooms the rose, and so the blushing maid— Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

See! yon anemones their leaves unfold, With rubies gleaming, and with living gold: While crystal showers from weeping clouds descend, Enjoy the presence of thy tuneful friend: Now, while the wines are brought, the sofa’s laid, Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

The plants no more are dried, the meadow dead; No more the rose-bud hangs her pensive head; The shrubs revive in valleys, mead, and bowers, And every stalk is garland’d with flowers; In silken robes each hillock stands arrayed— Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

Clear drops, each morn, impearl the rose’s bloom, And from its leaf the zephyr drinks perfume; The dewy buds expand their lucid store: Be this our wealth; ye damsels ask no more, Though wise men envy, and though fools upbraid, Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

The dew-drops sprinkled by the musky gale, Are changed to essence ere they reach the dale; The mild, blue sky a rich pavilion spreads, Without our labor, o’er our favor’d heads. Let others toil in war, in arts, in trade— Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

Late gloomy winter chilled the sullen air, Till Soliman arose, and all was fair. Soft in his reign, the notes of love resound, And pleasure’s rosy cup goes freely round. Here on the bank which mantling vines o’ershade, Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

May this rude lay, from age to age remain, A true memorial of this lovely train. Come, charming maid, and hear thy poet sing, Thyself the rose, and he the bird of spring; Love bids him sing, and love will be obey’d. Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade! _Translation of_SIR WILLIAM JONES. _From the Turkish of_ MESIHI.

TO SPRING.

Alas, delicious Spring! God sends thee down To breathe upon his cold and perish’d works Beauteous revival; earth should welcome thee— Thee and the west wind, thy smooth paramour, With the soft laughter of her flowery meads; Her joys, her melodies, the prancing stag Flutters the shivering fern; the steed shakes out His mane, the dewy herbage, silver-webb’d,

With frank step trampling; the wild goat looks down From his empurpling bed of heath, where break The waters deep and blue, with crystal gleams Of their quick-leaping people; the fresh lark Is in the morning sky; the nightingale Tunes evensong to the dropping waterfall. Creation lives with loveliness—all melts And trembles into one mild harmony. H. MILMAN.

TO SPRING.

FROM THE DANISH.

Thy beams are sweet, beloved spring! The winter-shades before thee fly; The bough smiles green, the young birds sing, The chainless current glistens by, Till countless flowers like stars illume The deepening vale and forest gloom.

O welcome, gentle guest from high, Sent to cheer our world below, To lighten sorrow’s faded eye, To kindle nature’s social glow! O, he is o’er his fellows blest Who feels thee in a guiltless breast!

Peace to the generous heart essaying With deeds of love to win our praise! He smiles, the spring of life surveying, Nor fears her cold and wintry days: To his high goal with triumph bright The calm years waft him in their flight.

Thou glorious goal, that shin’st afar, And seem’st to smile us on our way, Bright is the hope that crowns our war, The dawn-blush of eternal day; There shall we meet, this dark world o’er, And mix in love for evermore. _Translation of_ W. S. WALKER. THOMAS THAARUP, 1749–1821.

SPRING.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Look all around thee! How the spring advances! New life is playing through the gay green trees; See how, in yonder bower, the light leaf dances To the bird’s tread, and to the quivering breeze! How every blossom in the sunlight glances! The winter frost to his dark cavern flees, And earth, warm-wakened, feels through every vein The kindly influence of the vernal rain. Now silvery streamlets, from the mountains stealing, Dance joyously the verdant vales along; Cold fear no more the songster’s voice is sealing; Down in the thick dark grove is heard his song; And, all their bright and lovely hues revealing, A thousand plants the field and forest throng; Light comes upon the earth in radiant showers, And mingling rainbows play among the flowers. _Translation of_ C. T. BROOKS. LUDWIG TIECK.

ODE.

FROM THE SPANISH.

’Tis sweet, in the green spring, To gaze upon the wakening fields around; Birds in thicket sing, Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground; A thousand odors rise, Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dyes.

Shadowy, and close, and cool, The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook; For ever fresh and full, Shines at their feet the thirst-inviting brook; And the soft herbage seems Spread for a place of banquets and of dreams.

Thou, who alone art fair, And whom alone I love, art far away: Unless thy smile be there, It makes me sad to see the earth so gay: I care not if the train Of leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again! _Translation of_ W. C. BRYANT. ESTEVAN MANUEL DE VILLEGAS, 1595–1669.

THE AWAKENING YEAR.

The blue-birds and the violets Are with us once again, And promises of summer spot The hill-side and the plain.

The clouds along the mountain-tops Are riding on the breeze, Their trailing azure trains of mist Are tangled in the trees.

The snow-drifts, which have lain so long, Haunting the hidden nooks, Like guilty ghosts have slipped away, Unseen, into the brooks.

The streams are fed with generous rain, They drink the wayside springs, And flutter down from crag to crag, Upon their foamy wings.

Through all the long wet nights they brawl, By mountain-homes remote, Till woodmen in their sleep behold Their ample rafts afloat.

The lazy wheel that hung so dry Above the idle stream, Whirls wildly in the misty dark, And through the miller’s dream.

Loud torrent unto torrent calls, Till at the mountain’s feet Flashing afar their spectral light, The noisy waters meet.

They meet, and through the lowlands sweep, Toward briny bay and lake, Proclaiming to the distant towns “The country is awake!” T. B. REED.

SPRING SCENE.

Winter is past; the heart of Nature warms Beneath the wreck of unresisted storms; Doubtful at first, suspected more than seen, The southern slopes are fringed with tender green; On sheltered banks, beneath the dripping eaves, Spring’s earliest nurslings spread their glowing leaves, Bright with the hues from wider pictures won, White, azure, golden—drift, or sky, or sun: The snowdrop, bearing on her radiant breast The frozen trophy torn from winter’s crest; The violet, gazing on the arch of blue Till her own iris wears its deepened hue; The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mold, Naked and shivering, with his cup of gold. Swelled with new life, the darkening elm on high Prints her thick buds against the spotted sky; On all her boughs the stately chestnut cleaves The gummy shroud that wraps her embryo leaves; The house-fly, stealing from his narrow grave, Drugged with the opiate that November gave, Beats with faint wing against the snowy pane, Or crawls tenacious o’er its lucid plain; From shaded chinks of lichen-crusted walls In languid curves the gliding serpent crawls; The bog’s green harper, thawing from his sleep Twangs a hoarse note, and tries a shortened leap. On floating rails that face the softening noons The still, shy turtles range their dark platoons, Or toiling, aimless, o’er the mellowing fields, Trail through the grass their tesselated shields. At last young April, ever frail and fair, Wooed by her playmate with the golden hair, Chased to the margin of receding floods, O’er the soft meadows starred with opening buds, In tears and blushes sighs herself away, And hides her cheek beneath the flowers of May. O. W. HOLMES.

SPRING.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF PETRARCH.

The soft west wind, returning, brings again Its lovely family of herbs and flowers; Progne’s gay notes, and Philomela’s strain Vary the dance of spring-tide’s rosy hours; And joyously o’er every field and plain, Glows the bright smile that greets them from above, And the warm spirit of reviving love Breathes in the air and murmurs from the main. But tears and sorrowing sighs, which gushingly Pour from the secret chambers of my heart, Are all that spring returning brings to me; And in the modest smile, or glance of art, The song of birds, the bloom of heath and tree, A desert’s rugged tract and savage forms I see. _Translation of_ G. W. GREENE. FRANCESCO PETRARCA, 1304–1374.

[Illustration: Morning]