2.

Burst the buds in green desire:
Flames the primrose, all pale fire:
Hang the scents on the sweetbrier:
      Flit the birds about the tree:
Calls the cuckoo from the lorn-land:
Waves, clear emerald, the new-born land,
Winks with poppies the wan corn-land,
      Glow the violets round the elms:
Flute the blackbirds, pipe the starlings,
Sounds each glad voice, save my darling's,
      And thro' green moss-paven realms,
            Still the bee
In a drowsy dream, goes humming
"Summer's coming, coming, coming
      Only list, and only see,
All sweet faces, all sweet singers,
All love-makers, all joy-bringers!"
Thro' the gleaming, thro' the gloaming,
      A gay comer, a gay comer,
            So he hums.
Ah, too soon is Summer coming,
Coming soon! My darling lingers.
Linger summer, linger Summer,
            Till she comes!

3.

Roses, roses, many a one, dance
      In the breeze— mere waste of brightness!
Lilies, lilies, in abundance,
      —Where's the worth of all their whiteness?
Starry evens in warm heavens,
      —What's the joy of looking up?
Cowslips, come by fives and sevens,
      Stragglers faint with half-filled cup,
For whose quaffing, if the Spirit
      Of all Beauty and Enjoyment
            Be away?
Joy and Beauty miss their merit
      If they lack Love's least employment.
         And these singers do but say
To each other silly words,—
All these buds and all these birds,
      That untimely sport and play.
For the tone that turns to tune,
The mid-music of the noon
      Being silent, what can they?
All the more they sing together,
Jangling minstrels of the weather,
      All the more do they betray
Their unskilfulnesses, weak,
Thus to win the praise they seek,
Whose so long desired lay
Is but discord all the day!

4.

Stop, Summer, that strong hummer
      That is merely mocking thee!
Wait yet, Summer, early comer,
      Then shalt three times richer be,
      And thrice summer-sweet to me!
Redder red of riper roses,
      Greener green of greater powers,
         Lovelier leaf on lustier tree,
      Balmier breath of brighter flowers,
In the murmurous meadow closes,
      Sweeter sunlight, softer hours,
         Mellower music, goodlier glee,
      In the cavesome lonelinesses
      And delicious wildernesses
         Of full-hearted woods shall be,
For the sake of a sweet comer
Sweeter than thyself, O Summer,
Tho' of sweetest summers, thee
Summer sweet, the sweetest we
Will proclaim and prove to be,
If awhile, by lawn and lea
Following neither bird nor bee
Far as yonder smoothèd sea
Whence, while fragrant breezes free
Lightly waft her, cometh she,
Thou wilt linger yet with me.

PANTALOON ENCORE!

AH! great changes have taken place in the
world since I last had the pleasure of seeing
you, sir. Maybe you will remember. It was
in the jug and bottle department of Joey's
public-house—Joey, the clown, you know— nigh
three years ago, though it seems but last week.*
I dare say to you it seems a long time, for you
are young yet; but with us elderly folks Time
hurries so, as if he thought we were growing
tired of it, and wanted to get home. It's a
mistake on Time's part, though. Old people are
like young people as far as that goes. They
have a strong objection to be sent to bed while
there is a single companion left to sit up with.
      *See vol. viii., p. 10.

You remember my telling you how Joey and
I tossed up for our line when we were first
coming to London to play at the Bower, and
how I won pantaloon, worse luck. It did hurt
me a bit that night, when I thought of Joey
coming home from Hornsey Wood House, where
he had been pigeon-shooting with the swells, to
his pheasant supper in that fine parlour of his,
while I was sitting down to a bit of cheese and
an onion, with missus and the kids behind the
shop. Madame Pollonio, too, Joey's better
half, in her black satin gown, and gold watch
and chain, drawing the beer with those white
fingers of hers all over diamonds and pearls!
What a contrast to my poor missus in her old
lindsey woolsey, toiling and slaving for me and
the children, with never a bit of jewelry to
show but the plain ring I put upon her finger
the day we were married. I could not help
thinking how different it might have been if that
halfpenny had turned up tails, and I had won
clown. I would have been in Joey's place, and
Joey would have been in mine, though for the
matter of that I didn't wish Joey any harm.
They were right, sir, in making Fortune out to
be a woman. When she takes a thing in her
head, she goes the whole hog with it. If she
gives you butter to your bread at all, she lays it
on thick, sometimes on both sides; but if you
are no favourite with her, she won't allow you
so much as a scrape.

What set me thinking in this way was the
very large family party I had, that evening, to
partake of about a quarter of a pound of Dutch
cheese—the Dutch have no great talent for
cheese, I think, sir— and half of a stale half-
quartern loaf. There were six of them round
the table, all my own, with no particular views
in life, but with appetites which I would
describe as raging. The three eldest were out