Sylvan Musings.—In May.

COUCHED in cool shadow, girt by billowy swells,
Of foliage, rippling into buds and flowers,
Here I repose o'erfanned by breezy bowers,--
Lulled by a delicate stream whose music wells
Tender and low through those luxuriant dells,
Wherefrom a single broad-leaved chestnut towers;--
Still musing in the long, lush, languid hours,--
As in a dream I heard the tinkling bells
Of far-off kine, glimpsed through the verdurous sheen,
Blent with faint bleatings from the distant croft,--
The bee-throngs murmurous in the golden fern,
The wood-doves veiled by depths of flickering green,--
And near me, where the wild "queen fairies"burn,
The thrush's bridal passion, warm and soft!