But now, when every sharp-edged blast

Is quiet in its sheath,

His Mother leaves him free to taste
Earth's sweetness in thy breath.

Thy help is with the Weed that creeps
Along the humblest ground;
No Cliff so bare but on its steeps
Thy favours may be found;

But most on some peculiar nook

That our own hands have drest,

Thou and thy train are proud to look,
And seem to love it best.

And yet how pleased we wander forth
When May is whispering, "Come!
Choose from the bowers of virgin earth
The happiest for your home;

Heaven's bounteous love through me is spread
From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves,

Drops on the mouldering turret's head,
And on your turf-clad graves!"

Such greeting heard, away with sighs

For lilies that must fade,

Or "the rathe primrose as it dies

Forsaken" in the shade!

Vernal fruitions and desires

Are linked in endless chase;

While, as one kindly growth retires,
Another takes its place.

And what if thou, sweet May, hast known

Mishap by worm and blight;

If expectations newly blown

Have perished in thy sight;

If loves and joys, while up they sprung,
Were caught as in a snare;

Such is the lot of all the young,
However bright and fair.

Lo! Streams that April could not check

Are patient of thy rule;

Gurgling in foamy water-break,

Loitering in glassy pool:

By thee, thee only, could be sent
Such gentle Mists as glide,
Curling with unconfirmed intent,
On that green mountain's side.

How delicate the leafy veil

Through which yon House of God Gleams 'mid the peace of this deep dale By few but shepherds trod!

And lowly Huts, near beaten ways,

No sooner stand attired

In thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise Peep forth, and are admired.

Season of fancy and of hope,
Permit not for one hour

A blossom from thy crown to drop,

Nor add to it a flower!

Keep, lovely May, as if by touch

Of self-restraining art,

This modest charm of not too much,
Part seen, imagined part!

INSCRIPTION.

THE massy Ways, carried across these Heights
By Roman Perseverance, are destroyed,
Or hidden under ground, like sleeping worms.
How venture then to hope that Time will spare
This humble Walk? Yet on the mountain's side
A Poet's hand first shaped it; and the steps
Of that same Bard, repeated to and fro
At morn, at noon, and under moonlight skies,
Through the vicissitudes of many a year,
Forbade the weeds to creep o'er its grey line.
No longer, scattering to the heedless winds
The vocal raptures of fresh poesy,

Shall he frequent these precincts; locked no

more

In earnest converse with beloved Friends,
Here will he gather stores of ready bliss,
As from the beds and borders of a garden

Choice flowers are gathered! But, if Power may

spring

Out of a farewell yearning favoured more
Than kindred wishes mated suitably

With vain regrets, the Exile would consign
This Walk, his loved possession, to the care
Of those pure Minds that reverence the Muse.