POETRY.
THE MERRY MONTH.
IT was the merry month, And the merry birds sang loud ; The wren was in the ivy-bush, The lark was in the cloud.
In all that day of perfect May There seemed no power of ill, When a hawk came sailing out of the wood, And all those songs grew still.
It was the merry month, And the woods were full of glee, The lizard on its sunny bank, The squirrel upon the tree.
In all that time of lusty prime There seemed no thought of death, When a snake came crawling out of a nook, And fear held every breath.
It was the merry month, And never was month more fair : Lord Lovel is up in his lady's bower Singing with Lady Clare.
They sang it once, they sang it twice, That song ; he seemed true lover :
When a stinging word, like a blow, was heard,—
Their "merry month" was over. B.
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