MY SCHOOLBOY DAYS

The Spring is come forth, but no Spring is for me Like the Spring of my boyhood on woodland and lea, When flowers brought me heaven and knew me again, In the joy of their blooming o'er mountain and plain.

My thoughts are confined and imprisoned: O when Will freedom find me my own valleys again?

The wind breathes so sweet, and the day is so calm; In the woods and the thicket the flowers look so warm; And the gra.s.s is so green, so delicious and sweet; O when shall my manhood my youth's valleys meet-- The scenes where my children are laughing at play-- The scenes that from memory are fading away?

The primrose looks happy in every field; In strange woods the violets their odours will yield, And flowers in the sunshine, all brightly arrayed, Will bloom just as fresh and as sweet in the shade, But the wild flowers that bring me most joy and content Are the blossoms that glow where my childhood was spent.

The trees are all naked, the bushes are bare, And the fields are as brown as if Winter was there; But the violets are there by the d.y.k.es and the dell, Where I played "hen and chickens" and heard the church bell, Which called me to prayer-book and sermons in vain: O when shall I see my own valleys again?

The churches look bright as the sun at noon-day; There the meadows look green ere the winter's away; There the pooty still lies for the schoolboy to find, And a thought often brings these sweet places to mind; Where trees waved and wind moaned; no music so well: There nought sounded harsh but the school-calling bell.

There are spots where I played, there are spots where I loved, There are scenes where the tales of my choice where approved, As green as at first, and their memory will be The dearest of life's recollections to me.

The objects seen there, in the care of my heart, Are as fair as at first, and will never depart.

Though no names are mentioned to sanction my themes, Their hearts beat with mine, and make real my dreams; Their memories with mine their diurnal course run, True as night to the stars and as day to the sun; And as they are now so their memories will be, While sense, truth, and reason remain here with me.

LOVE LIVES BEYOND THE TOMB

Love lives beyond the tomb, And earth, which fades like dew!

I love the fond, The faithful, and the true.

Love lives in sleep: 'T is happiness of healthy dreams: Eve's dews may weep, But love delightful seems.

'T is seen in flowers, And in the morning's pearly dew; In earth's green hours, And in the heaven's eternal blue.

'T is heard in Spring, When light and sunbeams, warm and kind, On angel's wing Bring love and music to the mind.

And where's the voice, So young, so beautiful, and sweet As Nature's choice, Where Spring and lovers meet?

Love lives beyond the tomb, And earth, which fades like dew!

I love the fond, The faithful, and the true.

MY EARLY HOME

Here sparrows build upon the trees, And stockdove hides her nest; The leaves are winnowed by the breeze Into a calmer rest; The black-cap's song was very sweet, That used the rose to kiss; It made the Paradise complete: My early home was this.

The red-breast from the sweetbriar bush Drop't down to pick the worm; On the horse-chestnut sang the thrush, O'er the house where I was born; The moonlight, like a shower of pearls, Fell o'er this "bower of bliss,"

And on the bench sat boys and girls: My early home was this.

The old house stooped just like a cave, Thatched o'er with mosses green; Winter around the walls would rave, But all was calm within; The trees are here all green agen, Here bees the flowers still kiss, But flowers and trees seemed sweeter then: My early home was this.

MARY APPLEBY

I look upon the hedgerow flower, I gaze upon the hedgerow tree, I walk alone the silent hour, And think of Mary Appleby.

I see her in the br.i.m.m.i.n.g streams, I see her in the gloaming hour, I hear her in my Summer dreams Of singing bird and blooming flower.

For Mary is the dearest bird, And Mary is the sweetest flower, That in Spring bush was ever heard-- That ever bloomed on bank or bower.

O bonny Mary Appleby!

The sun did never sweeter shine Than when in youth I courted thee, And, dreaming, fancied you'd be mine.

The lark above the meadow sings, Wood pigeons coo in ivied trees, The b.u.t.terflies, on painted wings, Dance daily with the meadow bees.

All Nature is in happy mood, The sueing breeze is blowing free.

And o'er the fields, and by the wood, I think of Mary Appleby.

O bonny Mary Appleby; My once dear Mary Appleby!

A crown of gold thy own should be, My handsome Mary Appleby!

Thy face is like the Summer rose, Its maiden bloom is all divine, And more than all the world bestows I'd give had Mary e'er been mine.

AMONG THE GREEN BUSHES

Among the green bushes the songs of the thrushes Are answering each other in music and glee, While the magpies and rooks, in woods, hedges, near brooks, Mount their Spring dwellings on every high tree.

There meet me at eve, love, we'll on gra.s.sy banks lean love, And crop a white branch from the scented may tree, Where the silver brook wimples and the rosy cheek dimples, Sweet will the time of that courting hour be.

We'll notice wild flowers, love, that grow by thorn bowers, love, Though sinful to crop them now beaded with dew; The violet is thine, love, the primrose is mine, love, To Spring and each other so blooming and true.

With dewdrops all beaded, the feather gra.s.s seeded, The cloud mountains turn to dark woods in the sky; The daisy bud closes, while sleep the hedge roses; There's nothing seems wakeful but you love and I.

Larks sleep in the rushes, linnets perch on the bushes, While mag's on her nest with her tail peeping out; The moon it reveals her, yet she thinks night conceals her, Though birdnesting boys are not roving about.

The night winds won't wrong her, nor aught that belong her, For night is the nurse of all Nature in sleep; The moon, love, is keeping a watch o'er the sleeping, And dews for real pleasure do nothing but weep.

Among the green bushes we'll sit with the thrushes, And blackbirds and linnets, an hour or two long, That are up at the dawning, by times in the morning, To cheer thee when milking with music and song.

Then come at the eve, love, and where the banks lean, love, By the brook that flows on in its dribbles of song; While the moon looks so pale, love, and the trees look so hale, love, I will tell thee a tale, love, an hour or two long.

TO JANE

The lark's in the sky, love, The flowers on the lea, The whitethorn's in bloom, love, To please thee and me; 'Neath its shade we can rest, love, And sit on the hill, And as last we met, love, Enjoy the Spring still.

The Spring is for lovers, The Spring is for joy: O'er the moor, where the plovers Whirr, startled, and cry, We'll seek the white hawthorn, love, And sit on the hill; In the sweet sunny morn, love, We'll be lovers still;

Where the partridge is craking From morning to e'en, In the wheat lands awaking, The sprouts young and green, Where the brook dribbles past, love, Down the willowy glen, And as we met last, love, Be lovers again.