For, oh ! when chill the sunbeams fall 



Adown that dreary sky, 

 And gild yon dank and darkened wall 



With transient brilliancy, 



How do I weep, how do I pine 



For the time of flowers to come. 

 And turn me from that fading shine. 



To mourn the fields of home ! 



EMILY BRONTE. 



D 



THE LILAC 



EAR lilac-tree, a-spreaden wide 

 Thy purple blooth on ev'ry zide. 

 As if the hollow sky did shed 

 Its blue upon thy fiow'ry head ; 

 Oh ! whether I mid sheare wi' thee 

 Thy open air, my bloomen tree. 

 Or zee thy blossoms vrom the gloom, 

 Tthin my zunless worken-room. 

 My heart do leap, but leap wi' sighs. 

 At zight o' thee avore my eyes, 

 For when thy grey-blue head do sway 

 In cloudless light, 'tis Spring, 'tis May. 



'Tis Spring, 'tis May, as May woonce shed 

 His glowen light above my head — 

 When thy green boughs, wi' bloomy tips, 

 Did sheade my childem's laughen lips ; 

 A screenen vrom the noonday gleare 

 Their rwosy cheaks an' glossy heair ; 

 The while their mother's needle sped. 

 Too quick vor zight, the snow-white thread, 

 60 



