SONGS OF MAY. May is come, and May is flying; 'Tis the hour when life is deepest ; Buds are breaking; love is waking; Love her! bless her! as she goeth, For she goes to all the perished; May is come, and May is flying; WILLIAM HOWITT. 201 Yes, truly before this sweet May is flown, let us bathe our hearts in delicious May sunshine; let us bind up a fragrant garland from the poets; let us listen to the chorus of human and feathered minstrels. And first to the Laureate. MAY QUEEN.. You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May. Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you'll be there too, mother, to see me made the queen; And I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its many bowers, And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; gray, And I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May. The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, All the valley, mother,'ll be fresh, and green, and still, And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale'll merrily glance and play, For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May. So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May. SONGS OF FLOWERS. 203 FLOWERS. Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, Stars they are, wherein we read our history, Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, Bright and glorious is that revelation Written all over this great world of ours; Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth, these golden flowers. And the poet, faithful and far-seeing, Sees alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same, universal being, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, Theses in flowers and men are more than seeming; Which the poet in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Everywhere about us are they glowing, Not alone in Spring's armorial bearings, Not alone in meadows and green alleys, Not on graves of birds and beasts alone, In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers. In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, And with childlike credulous affection, LONGFELLOW, A DREAM OF MAY FLOWERS. I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way, And gentle odours led my steps astray, Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in a dream. There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets; Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets When the low wind its playmate's voice it hears. SONGS OF FLOWERS. And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, Green cow-bind, and the moonlight-coloured May, And cherry-blossoms, and white-cups, whose wine Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day; And wild rose, and ivy serpentine, With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray; And flowers azure, black and streaked with gold, Fairer than any wakened eyes behold. And nearer to the river's trembling edge There grew broad flag-flowers, purple, prankt with white, And starry river-buds among the sedge; And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which let the oak that overhung the hedge With moonlight beams of their own watery light; And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. 205 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. FLOWERS. God might have bade the earth bring forth The oak-tree, and the cedar-tree, Without a flower at all. He might have made enough, enough, For luxury, medicine, and toil, And yet have made no flowers. The ore within the mountain-mine Nor doth it need the lotus-flower The clouds might give abundant rain, The nightly dews might fall; And the herb that keepeth life in man Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, All dyed with rainbow-light, All fashioned with supremest grace, Upspringing day and night. |