Cuckoo Day.

THE daybreak glimmers

And shivers and shimmers,

Shivers and shimmers in purple and gold
Where the sun-horses chafe in the sun-god's hold
Just over the Eastern downs;

Till the flash of their bits and their harness-chains
And the lightnings tied into their tails and manes
Shoots over the Wealden towns,

Shoots on to the Cowfold monast'ry spire,
Shoots out to the sweeps of Chiltington mill,
To Tennyson's windows on Blackdown Hill,
And the sky of the neighbouring shire.

Then Aurora, the sun's

Rosy handmaiden, runs

With a basket of fruit blossoms poised on her head, Green ones and pink ones and white ones and red, And, with both hands uplifted, outscatters them wide Through gardens and orchards on every side,

Such abundance,

Redundance,

On every side,

Of blossoms for apples and damsons and cherries,

For currants and quinces, pears, plums and straw

berries,

That the labourers call to each other to see

What a wonderful fruit year 'tis likely to be.

And, lo, it is April, the month of sweets,

When clouds become whiter than Winter's snow, And swallows skim into the village streets

To seek the old homes of their long ago;

And folks declare,

At Heathfield Fair

A hook-nosed hag

From her fairing bag

Lets the cuckoo fly out, and away!

Away! and away! and away!

"Cuckoo! cuckoo!"

Away and away!

"Cuckoo !"

The beeches come green

Where their blushes have been;

And the chestnut leaflets begin to rise

And sprinkle the turf with their brown bud-scales; While the speedwell opens its shy, blue eyes,

To peep at the sun from the garden pales,
As the love-sick girls of the village pass,
With their ears alert, through the tender grass,
A-roaming the meadows and holts until
The cuckoo shall call over Highden Hill,
For so many times as they hear him call,
When they hear him first, must the acorns fall,
Must the Yule log burn, must the lambkins play
Ere the joy bells will ring on their wedding day.
"Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo ! "

"Four years?-four years are nearly never!" "Cuckoo! cuckoo!"-"Stop, cuckoo, stop, or we shall all be maids for ever!"

"Cuckoo! cuckoo!"

“O, bother you,

If we must all be maids for ever!"

Wood pigeons coo

Grow, peas, do-do!"

But the wryneck ceases her "peet-pee-peet!"
As her mate flies over the short, green wheat;
And the boys toss their caps, with a cheer,
When he passes them by with a clear

"Cuckoo! cuckoo!"

And they answer him back with a lusty and clear "Cuckoo! cuckoo !"

Then haste to the hedgerows to see
What colour the hair may be
Which he

Who secretly runs and searches,
Before the first cuckoo perches,
Will find in his stocking-feet;

A thread,

Black, yellow, or brown, or red,

Blown there from his future sweetheart's head.

And, once again, the fairies throw aside their ermine

hoods;

And, as we love, we see them in the meadows and

the woods.

And the little children sing,

In a ring o' roses ring,

"March winds and April showers
Bring forth May flowers!"

"Cuckoo! cuckoo!"

An Autumn Allegory.

COME, our old mate, come back to us again;
Too long, too long you linger in the town!
The hazel nuts are slipping in the lane;

And in the holt the chestnut-burs are brownCome, our old mate, both old and young complain!

We tapped a cask of cider yesterday;

To-morrow we shall thrash the walnut tree.

O, we will feast you, if you come this way,
On pies, and cakes, and cream and frumenty;
And give you all our shares

Of luscious harvest plums and William pears.

We never had such apples here before,

And plumper, sweeter filberts never grew; And on the grape-vine by the garden door There still is left a goodly bunch or two

Come, our old mate, for you is all our store! For you the medlars soften, one by one,

And frequently on fresh, clean straw are laid; For you the bottled gooseberries are done,

And currant wine and damson cheese are made : We will not think it true

That country sweets are no more sweet to you!

O, Never Say that Pan is Dead.

O, NEVER say that Pan is dead

And every nymph and satyr fled,

Though, grown too wise, men seek no more

The presences of country lore,

Nor go on pilgrimage to find

The magic pipes Pan leaves behind!

I saw a cherry tree in flower
All silvered by a passing shower;
Against the deep blue sky it shone
Most beautiful to look upon;

And from the midst of that fair tree
A dryad leaned and smiled to me.

Ah, never mortal maid was seen
So lovely as that cherry queen!
Hers was the face that often looks
From poems writ in ancient books
By holy dreamers who enshrined
The love of beauty in their mind.

And on the leafy sylvan way

I know a place where satyrs play;
Among the windflowers, round and round,
Their cloven feet have marked the ground;

And even little children bring

Sweet posies to that fairy ring.