Time was, blest Power! when Youths and Maids

At peep of dawn would rise,

And wander forth, in forest glades
Thy birth to solemnize.

Though mute the song

to grace the rite

Untouched the hawthorn bough,

Thy Spirit triumphs e'er the slight;
Man changes, but not Thou!

Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings
In love's disport employ ;

Warmed by thy influence, creeping Things

Awake to silent joy:

Queen art thou still for each gay Plant
Where the slim wild Deer roves;

And served in depths where Fishes haunt
Their own mysterious groves.

Cloud-piercing Peak, and trackless Heath,
Instinctive homage pay;

Nor wants the dim-lit Cave a wreath

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 morn,
The Pole, from which thy name
Hath not departed, stands forlorn
Of song and dance and game,
Still from the village-green a vow
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; Hearts also shall thy lessons reach

That never loved before.

Stript is the haughty One of pride,
The bashful freed from fear,

While rising, like the ocean-tide,

In flows the joyous year.

Hush, feeble lyre! weak words, refuse

The service to prolong!

To yon exulting Thrush the Muse
Intrusts the imperfect song;

His voice shall chant, in accents clear,

Throughout the live-long day,

Till the first silver Star appear,
The sovereignty of May.

TO MAY.

THOUGH Many suns have risen and set
Since thou, blithe May, wert born,
And Bards, who hailed thee, may forget
Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn;
There are who to a birthday strain
Confine not harp and voice,

But evermore throughout thy reign
Are grateful and rejoice!

Delicious odours! music sweet,
Too sweet to pass away!

Oh for a deathless song to meet
The soul's desire — a lay

That, when a thousand years are told,

Should praise thee, genial Power!

Through summer heat, autumnal cold, And winter's dreariest hour.

E

Earth, Sea, thy presence feel-nor less,

If yon ethereal blue

With its soft smile the truth express,

The Heavens have felt it too.

The inmost heart of man if glad
Partakes a livelier cheer;

And eyes 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 year is ours;"

And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed,
Have smiled upon thy flowers.

Who tripping lisps a merry song
Amid his playful peers?

The tender Infant who was long
A prisoner of fond fears;