Now in the spring-time of the coming year

Now in the spring-time of the coming year, When in the south celestial hemisphere Proud Horus mounted with increasing strength, And each succeeding day had grown in length;— When April clouds their vernal drops had shed, And bonny May had made all nature glad;— When that arch monarch had assail’d the moon, And bade her quarter in the month of June;— Then in the garden, rearward of the cot,— (A little oblong well-trimm’d fruitful spot, Encompass’d round with hedge-row elder trees,) Thenceforth would come the meek harmonious bees; There trip from plant to plant, from flow’r to flow’r, A-gathering in their luscious golden store. Some day, perchance, when Horus waxed warm, The honied-host would sally forth and swarm: Their movements little Jane would watch with care; Would call her father, and again repair Towards the garden: then she knew full well ’Twas time to fetch and swing the tinkling bell, To save them winging down the orchard-dell.

A stone-throw from this cot, where ran a stream ’Twixt mossy blocks of granite, there would gleam The glowworm’s beautiful and brilliant light,— Whilst wandering in the silent lovely night,— A living lantern in the darksome hours, ’Midst the green hawthorn and the wild-grown flow’rs, For other insects of its kindred race, Whose continent is but a little space. The rivulet (whose distant stream is heard Careering on and on as though it fear’d To lose its turn into eternity— To mingle in old Neptune’s revelry,) Is oft obscured by Nature’s ambient sward; Oft check’d; its reckless dance and frolic marr’d, And turn’d aside to till the farmer’s pail For breakfast, tea, and to make home brew’d ale.

The ocean.