So let us bless the sweet May day, And pray the coming year May see us walk the upward way-- Minds earnest, conscience clear; That fruit Spring's amplest hope may crown, And every winged day Make to our hearts more dear, more known, The hope, the peace of May! So cull the blossoms from the bough Where birds so gayly sing; We'll wreathe them for our queen's pure brow, We'll wreathe them for our king. CARADORI SINGING. Let not the heart o'erladen hither fly, Hoping in tears to vent its misery: She soars not like the lark with eager cry, Not hers the robin's notes of love and joy; Nor, like the nightingale's love-descant, tells Her song the truths of the heart's hidden wells. Come, if thy soul be tranquil, and her voice Shall bid the tranquil lake laugh and rejoice; Shall lightly warble, flutter, hover, dance, And charm thee by its sportive elegance. A finished style the highest art has given, And a fine organ she received from heaven: But genius casts not here one living ray; Thou shalt approve, admire, not weep, to-day. LINES IN ANSWER TO STANZAS CONTAINING SEVERAL PASSAGES OF DISTINGUISHED BEAUTY, ADDRESSED TO ME BY----. As by the wayside the worn traveller lies, And finds no pillow for his aching brow, Except the pack beneath whose weight he dies,-- If loving breezes from the far west blow, Laden with perfume from those blissful bowers Where gentle youth and hope once gilded all his hours, As fans that loving breeze, tears spring again, And cool the fever of his wearied brain. Even so to me the soft romantic dream Of one who still may sit at fancy's feet, Where love and beauty yet are all the theme, Where spheral concords find an echo meet. To the ideal my vexed spirit turns, But often for communion vainly burns. Blest is that hour when breeze of poesy From far the ancient fragrance wafts to me; _This time_ thrice blest, because it came unsought, "Sweet suppliance," and _dear_, because _unbought_. INFLUENCE OF THE OUTWARD. The sun, the moon, the waters, and the air, The hopeful, holy, terrible, and fair; Flower-alphabets, love-letters from the wave, All mysteries which flutter, blow, skim, lave; All that is ever-speaking, never spoken, Spells that are ever breaking, never broken,-- Have played upon my soul, and every string Confessed the touch which once could make it sing Triumphal notes; and still, though changed the tone, Though damp and jarring fall the lyre hath known, It would, if fitly played, and all its deep notes wove Into one tissue of belief and love, Yield melodies for angel-audience meet, And paeans fit creative power to greet.