THE NIGHTINGALE This is the month the nightingale, clod brown, Is heard among the woodland shady boughs: This is the time when in the vale, grass-grown, The maiden hears at eve her lover's vows, What time the blue mist round the patient cows Dim rises from the grass and half conceals Their dappled hides. I hear the nightingale, That from the little blackthorn spinney steals To the old hazel hedge that skirts the vale, And still unseen sings sweet. The ploughman feels The thrilling music as he goes along, And imitates and listens; while the fields Lose all their paths in dusk to lead him wrong, Still sings the nightingale her soft melodious song. THE DYING CHILD He could not die when trees were green, For he loved the time too well. His little hands, when flowers were seen, Were held for the bluebell, As he was carried o'er the green. His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee; He knew those children of the Spring: When he was well and on the lea He held one in his hands to sing, Which filled his heart with glee. Infants, the children of the Spring! How can an infant die When butterflies are on the wing, Green grass, and such a sky? How can they die at Spring? He held his hands for daisies white, And then for violets blue, And took them all to bed at night That in the green fields grew, As childhood's sweet delight. And then he shut his little eyes, And flowers would notice not; Bird's nests and eggs caused no surprise, He now no blossoms got: They met with plaintive sighs. When Winter came and blasts did sigh, And bare were plain and tree, As he for ease in bed did lie His soul seemed with the free, He died so quietly. MARY The skylark mounts up with the morn, The valleys are green with the Spring, The linnets sit in the whitethorn, To build mossy dwellings and sing; I see the thornbush getting green, I see the woods dance in the Spring, But Mary can never be seen, Though the all-cheering Spring doth begin. I see the grey bark of the oak Look bright through the underwood now; To the plough plodding horses they yoke, But Mary is not with her cow. The birds almost whistle her name: Say, where can my Mary be gone? The Spring brightly shines, and 'tis shame That she should be absent alone. The cowslips are out on the grass, Increasing like crowds at a fair; The river runs smoothly as glass, And the barges float heavily there; The milkmaid she sings to her cow, But Mary is not to be seen; Can Nature such absence allow At milking on pasture and green? When Sabbath-day comes to the green, The maidens are there in their best, But Mary is not to be seen, Though I walk till the sun's in the west. I fancy still each wood and plain, Where I and my Mary have strayed, When I was a young country swain, And she was the happiest maid.