To prove himself a fool, by asking it,
E'en he had blood, as Burns or Wallace had,
Or as the lip that makes a painter mad.
A HYMN TO BISHOP ST. VALENTINE.
THE day, the only day returns,
The true redde letter day returns,
When summer time in winter burns;
When a February dawn
Is open'd by two sleeves in lawn
Fairer than Aurora's fingers,
And a burst of all bird singers,
And a shower of billet-doux,
Tinging cheeks with rosy hues,
And over all a face divine,
Face good-natured, face most fine,
Face most anti-saturnine,
Even thine, yea, even thine,
Saint of sweethearts, Valentine!
See, he's dawning! See, he comes
With the jewels on his thumbs
Glancing us a ruby ray
(For he's sun and all to day)!
See his lily sleeves! and now
See the mitre on his brow!
See his truly pastoral crook,
And beneath his arm his book
(Some sweet tome De Arte Amandi):
And his hair, 'twixt saint and dandy,
Lovelocks touching either cheek,
And black, though with a silver streak,
As though for age both young and old,
And his look, 'twixt meek and bold,
Bowing round on either side,
Sweetly lipp'd and earnest eyed,
And lifting still, to bless the land,
His very gentlemanly hand.
Hail! oh hail! and thrice again
Hail, thou clerk of sweetest pen!
Connubialest of clergymen !
Exquisite bishop!--not at all
Like Bishop Bonner; no, nor Hall,
That gibing priest; nor Atterbury,
Although he was ingenious, very,
And wrote the verses on the "Fan;"
But then he swore,-unreverend man!
But very like good Bishop Berkeley,
Equally benign and clerkly ;
Very like Rundle, Shipley, Hoadley,
And all the genial of the godly;
Like De Sales, and like De Paul;
But most, I really think, of all,
Like Bishop Mant, whose sweet theology
Includeth verse and ornithology,
And like a proper rubric star,
Hath given us a new "Calendar,"
So full of flowers and birdly talking,
'Tis like an Eden bower to walk in.
Such another See is thine,
O thou Bishop Valentine;
Such another, but as big
To that, as Eden to a fig;
For all the world's thy diocese,
All the towns and all the trees,
And all the barns and villages:
The whole rising generation
Is thy loving congregation:
Enviable's indeed thy station;
Tithes cause thee no reprobation,
Dean and chapters no vexation,
Heresy no spoliation.
Begg'd is thy participation;
No one wishes thee translation,
Except for some sweet explanation.
All decree thee consecration!
Beatification!
All cry out, with heart-prostation,
Sweet's thy text-elucidation,
Sweet, oh sweet's thy visitation,
And Paradise thy confirmation.
MAY, thou month of rosy beauty
Month, when pleasure is a duty;
Month of maids that milk the kine,
Bosom rich, and breath divine;
Month of bees, and month of flowers,
Month of blossom-laden bowers;
Month of little hands with daisies,
Lovers' love, and poets' praises;
O thou merry month complete,
May, thy very name is sweet!
May was maid in olden times,
And is still in Scottish rhymes;
May's the blooming hawthorn bough;
May's the month that's laughing now.
I no sooner write the word,
Than it seems as though it heard,
And looks up, and laughs at me,
Like a sweet face, rosily,-
Like an actual colour bright,
Flushing from the paper's white;
Like a bride that knows her power,
Started in a summer bower.
And deny us thy sweet looks,
I can love thee, sweet, in books,
Love thee in the poets' pages,
Where they keep thee green for ages;
Love and read thee, as a lover
Reads his lady's letters over,
Breathing blessings on the art,
Which commingles those that part.
There is May in books forever; May will part from Spenser never; May's in Milton, May 's in Prior, May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer; May's in all the Italian books; She has old and modern nooks, Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves In happy places they call shelves, And will rise, and dress your rooms With a drapery thick with blooms.
Come, ye rains then, if ye will, May's at home, and with me still: But come rather, thou, good weather, And find us in the fields together.
May's a word 'tis sweet to hear,
Laughter of the budding year;
Sweet it is to start, and say
On May-morning, "This is May!"
But there also breathes a tune-
Hear it in the sound of "June."
June's a month, and June's a name,
Never yet hath had its fame.
Summer's in the sound of June,
Summer, and a deepen'd tune
Of the bees, and of the birds,-
And of loitering lovers' words,—
And the brooks that, as they go,
Seem to think aloud, yet low;
And the voice of early heat,
Where the mirth-spun insects meet;
And the very colour's tone
and fervid grown; All a voice, as if it spoke
Of the brown wood's cottage smoke,
And the sun, and bright green oak.
O come quickly, show thee soon,
Come at once with all thy noon,
Manly, joyous, gipsy June.
May, the jade, with her fresh cheek
And the love the bards bespeak,
May, by coming first in sight,
Half defrauds thee of thy right;
For her best is shared by thee
With a wealthier potency,
So that thou dost bring us in
A sort of May-time masculine,
Fit for action or for rest,
As the luxury seems the best,
Bearding now the morning breeze,
Or in love with paths of trees,
Or dispos'd, full length, to lie
With a hand-enshaded eye
On thy warm and golden slopes,
Basker in the butter-cups,
Listening with nice distant ears
To the shepherd's clapping shears,
Or the next field's laughing play
In the happy wars of hay,
While its perfume breathes all over,
Or the bean comes fine, or clover.
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