SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

The April rains are past, the frosts austere,— The flowers are hungering for the genial sun, The snow’s dissolved, the merry birds are here, And rural labors now are well begun. Hither, from the disturbing, noisy Court I’ve flown to this sequestered, quiet scene, To meditate on Love and Love’s disport Mid these smooth pastures and the meadows green. Sure ’twere no fault of mine, no whispering sin, If these coy leaves he sends me seem to speak All that my heart, caressing, folds within; Nor if I sought to smother, my flushed cheek Would tell too plainly what I cannot hide, Fond fancy disenchant nor set aside.