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Time was, blest Power! when Youths and Maids
At peep of dawn would rise,
Thy birth to solemnize.
Untouched the hawthorn bough,
Man changes, but not Thou !
Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings
In love's disport employ ;
Awake to silent joy:
Where the slim wild Deer roves;
Their own mysterious groves.
Cloud-piercing Peak, and trackless Heath,
Instinctive homage pay;
To honour Thee, sweet May !
Where Cities fanned by thy brisk airs
Behold a smokeless sky, Their puniest Flower-pot-nursling dares
To open a bright eye.
And if, on this thy natal mort,
The Pole, from which thy name Hath not departed, stands forlorn
Of song and dance and game, Still from the village-green a row
Aspires to thee addrest, Wherever peace is on the brow,
Or love within the breast.
Yes ! where Love nestles thou canst teach
The soul to love the more ;
That never loved before.
The bashful freed from fear,
In flows the joyous year.
Hush, feeble lyre! weak words, refuse
The service to prolong!
Intrusts the imperfect song;
Throughout the live-long day,
appear, The sovereignty of May.
many suns have risen and set Since thou, blithe May, wert born, And Bards, who hailed thee, may forget
Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn;
Confine not harp and voice,
Are grateful and rejoice!
Delicious odours ! music sweet,
Too sweet to pass away!
The soul's desire a lay
Should praise thee, genial Power ! Through summer heat, autumnal cold,
And winter's dreariest hour.
Earth, Sea, thy presence feel — nor less,
If yon ethereal blue
The Heavens have felt it too.
that cannot but be sad Let fall a brightened tear.
Since thy return, through days and weeks
Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks
Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, “ Another
is ours; And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed,
Have smiled upon thy flowers.
Who tripping lisps a merry song
Amid his playful peers ?
A prisoner of fond fears;