THE MORNING WALK The linnet sat upon its nest, By gales of morning softly prest, His green wing and his greener breast Were damp with dews of morning: The dog-rose near the oaktree grew, Blush'd swelling 'neath a veil of dew, A pink's nest to its prickles grew, Right early in the morning. The sunshine glittered gold, the while A country maiden clomb the stile; Her straw hat couldn't hide the smile That blushed like early morning. The lark, with feathers all wet through, Looked up above the glassy dew, And to the neighbouring corn-field flew, Fanning the gales of morning. In every bush was heard a song, On each grass blade, the whole way long, A silver shining drop there hung, The milky dew of morning. Where stepping-stones stride o'er the brook The rosy maid I overtook. How ruddy was her healthy look, So early in the morning! I took her by the well-turned arm, And led her over field and farm, And kissed her tender cheek so warm, A rose in early morning. The spiders' lacework shone like glass, Tied up to flowers and cat-tail grass; The dew-drops bounced before the lass, Sprinkling the early morning. Her dark curls fanned among the gales, The skylark whistled o'er the vales, I told her love's delightful tales Among the dews of morning. She crop't a flower, shook oft' the dew, And on her breast the wild rose grew; She blushed as fair, as lovely, too-- The living rose of morning. TO MISS C..... Thy glance is the brightest, Thy voice is the sweetest, Thy step is the lightest, Thy shape the completest: Thy waist I could span, dear, Thy neck's like a swan's, dear, And roses the sweetest On thy cheeks do appear. The music of Spring Is the voice of my charmer. When the nightingales sing She's as sweet; who would harm her? Where the snowdrop or lily lies They show her face, but her eyes Are the dark clouds, yet warmer, From which the quick lightning flies O'er the face of my charmer. Her faith is the snowdrop, So pure on its stem; And love in her bosom She wears as a gem; She is young as Spring flowers, And sweet as May showers, Swelling the clover buds, and bending the stem, She's the sweetest of blossoms, she love's favourite gem. I PLUCK SUMMER BLOSSOMS I pluck Summer blossoms, And think of rich bosoms-- The bosoms I've leaned on, and worshipped, and won. The rich valley lilies, The wood daffodillies, Have been found in our rambles when Summer begun. Where I plucked thee the bluebell, 'T was where the night dew fell, And rested till morn in the cups of the flowers; I shook the sweet posies, Bluebells and brere roses, As we sat in cool shade in Summer's warm hours.