VI.May.
What, alas! will become of those luckless wights—the future poets of Caffreland and New Zealand, of Patagonia and Pitcairn’s Island—when they suddenly awake to the miserable reality that there is no May in their year. May! The very word in itself is charming; pleasing to the eye, falling sweetly on the ear, gliding naturally into music and song, dowered with innumerable images of beauty and delight, imaginary bliss, and natural joy. What, we ask again, will be the melancholy consequences to the southern hemisphere when they become fully conscious that they have lost the “merry month,” the “soote season,” from their calendar—that with them January must forever linger in the lap of May. Conceive of Hottentot elegies and Fejee sonnets enlarging upon the balmy airs and soft skies of November; raving about the tender young blossoms of December, and the delicate fruits of January. Will the world ever become reallyaccustomed to such a change of key? We doubt it. After all, there is something in primogeniture; it naturally gives all the honors of precedence. Those writers who first caught the ear of the listening earth will always have the best of it; their successors must fain be content to yield a certain homage to long-established privileges. It will be a great while yet—at least a thousand years or so—before the Dryden of Port Sidney or the Camoens of Paraguay shall venture to say hard things of May!
SONG.
SONG.
SONG.
Now the bright morning star, day’s harbinger,Comes dancing from the east, and leads with herThe flow’ry May, who from her green lap throwsThe yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.Hail bounteous May, that dost inspireMirth, and youth, and warm desire;Woods and groves are of thy dressing;Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.Thus we salute thee with our early song,And welcome thee, and wish thee long!John Milton
Now the bright morning star, day’s harbinger,Comes dancing from the east, and leads with herThe flow’ry May, who from her green lap throwsThe yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.Hail bounteous May, that dost inspireMirth, and youth, and warm desire;Woods and groves are of thy dressing;Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.Thus we salute thee with our early song,And welcome thee, and wish thee long!John Milton
Now the bright morning star, day’s harbinger,Comes dancing from the east, and leads with herThe flow’ry May, who from her green lap throwsThe yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.Hail bounteous May, that dost inspireMirth, and youth, and warm desire;Woods and groves are of thy dressing;Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.Thus we salute thee with our early song,And welcome thee, and wish thee long!John Milton
Now the bright morning star, day’s harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flow’ry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.
Hail bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire;
Woods and groves are of thy dressing;
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long!
John Milton
FROM “PALAMON AND ARCITE.”
FROM “PALAMON AND ARCITE.”
FROM “PALAMON AND ARCITE.”
Thus year by year they pass, and day by day,Till once, ’twas on the morn of cheerful May,The young Emilia, fairer to be seenThan the fair lily on the flowery green—More fresh than May herself in blossoms new—For with the rosy color strove her hue—Waked, as her custom was, before the day,To do th’ observance due to sprightly May:For sprightly May commands our youth to keepThe vigils of her nights, and breaks their sluggard sleep.Each gentle breath with kindly warmth she moves;Inspires new flames, revives extinguished loves.In this remembrance, Emily, ere day,Arose, and dress’d herself in rich array;Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair,Adown her shoulders fell her length of hair;A ribbon did the braided tresses bind,The rest was loose, and wanton’d in the wind,Aurora had but newly chas’d the night,And purpled o’er the sky with blushing light,When to the garden walk she took her wayTo sport and trip along in cool of day,And offer maiden vows in honor of the May.At every turn she made a little stand,And thrust among the thorns her lily hand,To draw the rose; and every rose she drew,She shook the stalk, and brush’d away the dew;Then parti-colored flowers of white and redShe wove, to make a garland for her head:This done, she sung and carrol’d out so clear,That men and angels might rejoice to hear:Our wandering Philomel forgot to sing,And learned from her to welcome in the spring.John Dryden.
Thus year by year they pass, and day by day,Till once, ’twas on the morn of cheerful May,The young Emilia, fairer to be seenThan the fair lily on the flowery green—More fresh than May herself in blossoms new—For with the rosy color strove her hue—Waked, as her custom was, before the day,To do th’ observance due to sprightly May:For sprightly May commands our youth to keepThe vigils of her nights, and breaks their sluggard sleep.Each gentle breath with kindly warmth she moves;Inspires new flames, revives extinguished loves.In this remembrance, Emily, ere day,Arose, and dress’d herself in rich array;Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair,Adown her shoulders fell her length of hair;A ribbon did the braided tresses bind,The rest was loose, and wanton’d in the wind,Aurora had but newly chas’d the night,And purpled o’er the sky with blushing light,When to the garden walk she took her wayTo sport and trip along in cool of day,And offer maiden vows in honor of the May.At every turn she made a little stand,And thrust among the thorns her lily hand,To draw the rose; and every rose she drew,She shook the stalk, and brush’d away the dew;Then parti-colored flowers of white and redShe wove, to make a garland for her head:This done, she sung and carrol’d out so clear,That men and angels might rejoice to hear:Our wandering Philomel forgot to sing,And learned from her to welcome in the spring.John Dryden.
Thus year by year they pass, and day by day,Till once, ’twas on the morn of cheerful May,The young Emilia, fairer to be seenThan the fair lily on the flowery green—More fresh than May herself in blossoms new—For with the rosy color strove her hue—Waked, as her custom was, before the day,To do th’ observance due to sprightly May:For sprightly May commands our youth to keepThe vigils of her nights, and breaks their sluggard sleep.Each gentle breath with kindly warmth she moves;Inspires new flames, revives extinguished loves.In this remembrance, Emily, ere day,Arose, and dress’d herself in rich array;Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair,Adown her shoulders fell her length of hair;A ribbon did the braided tresses bind,The rest was loose, and wanton’d in the wind,Aurora had but newly chas’d the night,And purpled o’er the sky with blushing light,When to the garden walk she took her wayTo sport and trip along in cool of day,And offer maiden vows in honor of the May.At every turn she made a little stand,And thrust among the thorns her lily hand,To draw the rose; and every rose she drew,She shook the stalk, and brush’d away the dew;Then parti-colored flowers of white and redShe wove, to make a garland for her head:This done, she sung and carrol’d out so clear,That men and angels might rejoice to hear:Our wandering Philomel forgot to sing,And learned from her to welcome in the spring.John Dryden.
Thus year by year they pass, and day by day,
Till once, ’twas on the morn of cheerful May,
The young Emilia, fairer to be seen
Than the fair lily on the flowery green—
More fresh than May herself in blossoms new—
For with the rosy color strove her hue—
Waked, as her custom was, before the day,
To do th’ observance due to sprightly May:
For sprightly May commands our youth to keep
The vigils of her nights, and breaks their sluggard sleep.
Each gentle breath with kindly warmth she moves;
Inspires new flames, revives extinguished loves.
In this remembrance, Emily, ere day,
Arose, and dress’d herself in rich array;
Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair,
Adown her shoulders fell her length of hair;
A ribbon did the braided tresses bind,
The rest was loose, and wanton’d in the wind,
Aurora had but newly chas’d the night,
And purpled o’er the sky with blushing light,
When to the garden walk she took her way
To sport and trip along in cool of day,
And offer maiden vows in honor of the May.
At every turn she made a little stand,
And thrust among the thorns her lily hand,
To draw the rose; and every rose she drew,
She shook the stalk, and brush’d away the dew;
Then parti-colored flowers of white and red
She wove, to make a garland for her head:
This done, she sung and carrol’d out so clear,
That men and angels might rejoice to hear:
Our wandering Philomel forgot to sing,
And learned from her to welcome in the spring.
John Dryden.
[Pastoral Scene]
SALUTATION OF MAIA.
FROM THE “MASQUE OF THE PENATES.”
FROM THE “MASQUE OF THE PENATES.”
FROM THE “MASQUE OF THE PENATES.”
If every pleasure were distilledOf every flower in every field,And all that Hybla’s hives do yield,Were into one broad mazer filled;If thereto added all the gumsAnd spice that from Panchaïs comes,The odor that Hydaspes lends,Or Phœnix proves before she ends;If all the air my Flora drew,Or spirit that Zephyr ever blew,Were put therein; and all the dewThat every rosy morning knew;Yet all diffused upon this bower,To make one sweet detaining hour,Were much too little for the graceAnd honor you vouchsafe the place;But if you please to come again,We vow we will not then with vainAnd empty pastimes entertainYour so desired, though grieved, pain;For we will have the wanton fawns,That frisking skip about the lawns,The Panisks and the Sylvans rude,Satyrs, and all that multitude,To dance their wilder rounds about,To cleave the air with many a shout,As they would hunt poor Echo outOf yonder valley, who doth flout,Their rustic noises, to visit whom,You shall behold whole bevies comeOf gaudy nymphs, whose tender callsWell tuned unto the many fallsOf sweet and several sliding rills,That stream from tops of those less hills,Like so many silver quills,When Zephyr them with music fills.For them Favonius here shall blowNew flowers, that you shall see to grow—Of which each hand a part shall take,And for your heads fresh garlands make,Wherewith, while they your temples round,An air of several birds shall soundAn Io Pæon, that shall drownThe acclamation at your crown.All this, and more than I have give gift of saying,May vows, so you will oft come here a Maying.Ben Jonson, 1574–1637.
If every pleasure were distilledOf every flower in every field,And all that Hybla’s hives do yield,Were into one broad mazer filled;If thereto added all the gumsAnd spice that from Panchaïs comes,The odor that Hydaspes lends,Or Phœnix proves before she ends;If all the air my Flora drew,Or spirit that Zephyr ever blew,Were put therein; and all the dewThat every rosy morning knew;Yet all diffused upon this bower,To make one sweet detaining hour,Were much too little for the graceAnd honor you vouchsafe the place;But if you please to come again,We vow we will not then with vainAnd empty pastimes entertainYour so desired, though grieved, pain;For we will have the wanton fawns,That frisking skip about the lawns,The Panisks and the Sylvans rude,Satyrs, and all that multitude,To dance their wilder rounds about,To cleave the air with many a shout,As they would hunt poor Echo outOf yonder valley, who doth flout,Their rustic noises, to visit whom,You shall behold whole bevies comeOf gaudy nymphs, whose tender callsWell tuned unto the many fallsOf sweet and several sliding rills,That stream from tops of those less hills,Like so many silver quills,When Zephyr them with music fills.For them Favonius here shall blowNew flowers, that you shall see to grow—Of which each hand a part shall take,And for your heads fresh garlands make,Wherewith, while they your temples round,An air of several birds shall soundAn Io Pæon, that shall drownThe acclamation at your crown.All this, and more than I have give gift of saying,May vows, so you will oft come here a Maying.Ben Jonson, 1574–1637.
If every pleasure were distilledOf every flower in every field,And all that Hybla’s hives do yield,Were into one broad mazer filled;If thereto added all the gumsAnd spice that from Panchaïs comes,The odor that Hydaspes lends,Or Phœnix proves before she ends;If all the air my Flora drew,Or spirit that Zephyr ever blew,Were put therein; and all the dewThat every rosy morning knew;Yet all diffused upon this bower,To make one sweet detaining hour,Were much too little for the graceAnd honor you vouchsafe the place;But if you please to come again,We vow we will not then with vainAnd empty pastimes entertainYour so desired, though grieved, pain;For we will have the wanton fawns,That frisking skip about the lawns,The Panisks and the Sylvans rude,Satyrs, and all that multitude,To dance their wilder rounds about,To cleave the air with many a shout,As they would hunt poor Echo outOf yonder valley, who doth flout,Their rustic noises, to visit whom,You shall behold whole bevies comeOf gaudy nymphs, whose tender callsWell tuned unto the many fallsOf sweet and several sliding rills,That stream from tops of those less hills,Like so many silver quills,When Zephyr them with music fills.For them Favonius here shall blowNew flowers, that you shall see to grow—Of which each hand a part shall take,And for your heads fresh garlands make,Wherewith, while they your temples round,An air of several birds shall soundAn Io Pæon, that shall drownThe acclamation at your crown.All this, and more than I have give gift of saying,May vows, so you will oft come here a Maying.Ben Jonson, 1574–1637.
If every pleasure were distilled
Of every flower in every field,
And all that Hybla’s hives do yield,
Were into one broad mazer filled;
If thereto added all the gums
And spice that from Panchaïs comes,
The odor that Hydaspes lends,
Or Phœnix proves before she ends;
If all the air my Flora drew,
Or spirit that Zephyr ever blew,
Were put therein; and all the dew
That every rosy morning knew;
Yet all diffused upon this bower,
To make one sweet detaining hour,
Were much too little for the grace
And honor you vouchsafe the place;
But if you please to come again,
We vow we will not then with vain
And empty pastimes entertain
Your so desired, though grieved, pain;
For we will have the wanton fawns,
That frisking skip about the lawns,
The Panisks and the Sylvans rude,
Satyrs, and all that multitude,
To dance their wilder rounds about,
To cleave the air with many a shout,
As they would hunt poor Echo out
Of yonder valley, who doth flout,
Their rustic noises, to visit whom,
You shall behold whole bevies come
Of gaudy nymphs, whose tender calls
Well tuned unto the many falls
Of sweet and several sliding rills,
That stream from tops of those less hills,
Like so many silver quills,
When Zephyr them with music fills.
For them Favonius here shall blow
New flowers, that you shall see to grow—
Of which each hand a part shall take,
And for your heads fresh garlands make,
Wherewith, while they your temples round,
An air of several birds shall sound
An Io Pæon, that shall drown
The acclamation at your crown.
All this, and more than I have give gift of saying,
May vows, so you will oft come here a Maying.
Ben Jonson, 1574–1637.
FROM THE GERMAN OF THE MINNESINGERS.
FROM THE GERMAN OF THE MINNESINGERS.
FROM THE GERMAN OF THE MINNESINGERS.
Up, up! let us greetThe season so sweet,For winter is gone,And the flowers are springing,And little birds singing,Their soft notes ringing,And bright is the sun!Where all was dressedIn a snowy vest;There grass is growing,With dew-drops glowing,And flowers are seenOn beds of green.All down in the grove,Around, above,Sweet music floats;As now loudly vying,Now softly sighing,The nightingale’s plyingHer tuneful notes;And joyous at spring,Her companions sing,Up, maidens, repairTo the meadows so fair,And dance we away,This merry May.Translation ofE. Taylor.Gottfried von Nifen,about 1200.
Up, up! let us greetThe season so sweet,For winter is gone,And the flowers are springing,And little birds singing,Their soft notes ringing,And bright is the sun!Where all was dressedIn a snowy vest;There grass is growing,With dew-drops glowing,And flowers are seenOn beds of green.All down in the grove,Around, above,Sweet music floats;As now loudly vying,Now softly sighing,The nightingale’s plyingHer tuneful notes;And joyous at spring,Her companions sing,Up, maidens, repairTo the meadows so fair,And dance we away,This merry May.Translation ofE. Taylor.Gottfried von Nifen,about 1200.
Up, up! let us greetThe season so sweet,For winter is gone,And the flowers are springing,And little birds singing,Their soft notes ringing,And bright is the sun!Where all was dressedIn a snowy vest;There grass is growing,With dew-drops glowing,And flowers are seenOn beds of green.All down in the grove,Around, above,Sweet music floats;As now loudly vying,Now softly sighing,The nightingale’s plyingHer tuneful notes;And joyous at spring,Her companions sing,Up, maidens, repairTo the meadows so fair,And dance we away,This merry May.Translation ofE. Taylor.Gottfried von Nifen,about 1200.
Up, up! let us greet
The season so sweet,
For winter is gone,
And the flowers are springing,
And little birds singing,
Their soft notes ringing,
And bright is the sun!
Where all was dressed
In a snowy vest;
There grass is growing,
With dew-drops glowing,
And flowers are seen
On beds of green.
All down in the grove,
Around, above,
Sweet music floats;
As now loudly vying,
Now softly sighing,
The nightingale’s plying
Her tuneful notes;
And joyous at spring,
Her companions sing,
Up, maidens, repair
To the meadows so fair,
And dance we away,
This merry May.
Translation ofE. Taylor.Gottfried von Nifen,about 1200.
FROM THE GERMAN MINNESINGERS.
FROM THE GERMAN MINNESINGERS.
FROM THE GERMAN MINNESINGERS.
May, sweet May, again is come—May, that frees the land from gloom;Children, children, up and seeAll her stores of jollity!On the laughing hedgerow’s sideShe hath spread her treasures wide;She is in the greenwood shade,Where the nightingale hath madeEvery branch and every treeRing with her sweet melody;Hill and dale are May’s own treasures.Youths, rejoice! In sportive measuresSing ye! join the chorus gay!Hail this merry, merry May!Up, then, children! we will goWhere the blooming roses grow;In a joyful companyWe the bursting flowers will see:Up; your festal dress prepare!Where gay hearts are meeting—thereMay hath pleasures most inviting,Heart, and sight, and ear delighting.Listen to the bird’s sweet song;Hark! how soft it floats along!Courtly dames our pleasures share!Never saw I May so fair;Therefore dancing will we go.Youths, rejoice! the flowerets blow!Sing ye! join the chorus gay!Hail this merry, merry May!Our manly youths, where are they now?Bid them up and with us go,To the sporters on the plain:Bid adieu to care and pain,Now, thou pale and wounded lover!Thou thy peace shalt soon recover,Many a laughing lip and eyeSpeaks the light heart’s gayety;Lovely flowers around we find,In the smiling verdure twined;Richly steeped in May-dews glowing.Youths, rejoice! the flowers are blowing!Sing ye! join the chorus gay!Hail this merry, merry May!O, if to my love restored—To her, o’er all her sex adored—What supreme delight were mine!How would care her sway resign?Merrily in the bloom of MayWould I weave a garland gay.Better than the best is she,Purer than all purity;For her spotless self alone,I will praise this changeless one:Thankful, or unthankful, sheShall my song, my idol be.Youths, then join the chorus gay!Hail this merry, merry May!Translation ofEdgar Taylor.Conrad V. Kirchberg,about 1170.
May, sweet May, again is come—May, that frees the land from gloom;Children, children, up and seeAll her stores of jollity!On the laughing hedgerow’s sideShe hath spread her treasures wide;She is in the greenwood shade,Where the nightingale hath madeEvery branch and every treeRing with her sweet melody;Hill and dale are May’s own treasures.Youths, rejoice! In sportive measuresSing ye! join the chorus gay!Hail this merry, merry May!Up, then, children! we will goWhere the blooming roses grow;In a joyful companyWe the bursting flowers will see:Up; your festal dress prepare!Where gay hearts are meeting—thereMay hath pleasures most inviting,Heart, and sight, and ear delighting.Listen to the bird’s sweet song;Hark! how soft it floats along!Courtly dames our pleasures share!Never saw I May so fair;Therefore dancing will we go.Youths, rejoice! the flowerets blow!Sing ye! join the chorus gay!Hail this merry, merry May!Our manly youths, where are they now?Bid them up and with us go,To the sporters on the plain:Bid adieu to care and pain,Now, thou pale and wounded lover!Thou thy peace shalt soon recover,Many a laughing lip and eyeSpeaks the light heart’s gayety;Lovely flowers around we find,In the smiling verdure twined;Richly steeped in May-dews glowing.Youths, rejoice! the flowers are blowing!Sing ye! join the chorus gay!Hail this merry, merry May!O, if to my love restored—To her, o’er all her sex adored—What supreme delight were mine!How would care her sway resign?Merrily in the bloom of MayWould I weave a garland gay.Better than the best is she,Purer than all purity;For her spotless self alone,I will praise this changeless one:Thankful, or unthankful, sheShall my song, my idol be.Youths, then join the chorus gay!Hail this merry, merry May!Translation ofEdgar Taylor.Conrad V. Kirchberg,about 1170.
May, sweet May, again is come—May, that frees the land from gloom;Children, children, up and seeAll her stores of jollity!On the laughing hedgerow’s sideShe hath spread her treasures wide;She is in the greenwood shade,Where the nightingale hath madeEvery branch and every treeRing with her sweet melody;Hill and dale are May’s own treasures.Youths, rejoice! In sportive measuresSing ye! join the chorus gay!Hail this merry, merry May!
May, sweet May, again is come—
May, that frees the land from gloom;
Children, children, up and see
All her stores of jollity!
On the laughing hedgerow’s side
She hath spread her treasures wide;
She is in the greenwood shade,
Where the nightingale hath made
Every branch and every tree
Ring with her sweet melody;
Hill and dale are May’s own treasures.
Youths, rejoice! In sportive measures
Sing ye! join the chorus gay!
Hail this merry, merry May!
Up, then, children! we will goWhere the blooming roses grow;In a joyful companyWe the bursting flowers will see:Up; your festal dress prepare!Where gay hearts are meeting—thereMay hath pleasures most inviting,Heart, and sight, and ear delighting.Listen to the bird’s sweet song;Hark! how soft it floats along!Courtly dames our pleasures share!Never saw I May so fair;Therefore dancing will we go.Youths, rejoice! the flowerets blow!Sing ye! join the chorus gay!Hail this merry, merry May!
Up, then, children! we will go
Where the blooming roses grow;
In a joyful company
We the bursting flowers will see:
Up; your festal dress prepare!
Where gay hearts are meeting—there
May hath pleasures most inviting,
Heart, and sight, and ear delighting.
Listen to the bird’s sweet song;
Hark! how soft it floats along!
Courtly dames our pleasures share!
Never saw I May so fair;
Therefore dancing will we go.
Youths, rejoice! the flowerets blow!
Sing ye! join the chorus gay!
Hail this merry, merry May!
Our manly youths, where are they now?Bid them up and with us go,To the sporters on the plain:Bid adieu to care and pain,Now, thou pale and wounded lover!Thou thy peace shalt soon recover,Many a laughing lip and eyeSpeaks the light heart’s gayety;Lovely flowers around we find,In the smiling verdure twined;Richly steeped in May-dews glowing.Youths, rejoice! the flowers are blowing!Sing ye! join the chorus gay!Hail this merry, merry May!
Our manly youths, where are they now?
Bid them up and with us go,
To the sporters on the plain:
Bid adieu to care and pain,
Now, thou pale and wounded lover!
Thou thy peace shalt soon recover,
Many a laughing lip and eye
Speaks the light heart’s gayety;
Lovely flowers around we find,
In the smiling verdure twined;
Richly steeped in May-dews glowing.
Youths, rejoice! the flowers are blowing!
Sing ye! join the chorus gay!
Hail this merry, merry May!
O, if to my love restored—To her, o’er all her sex adored—What supreme delight were mine!How would care her sway resign?Merrily in the bloom of MayWould I weave a garland gay.Better than the best is she,Purer than all purity;For her spotless self alone,I will praise this changeless one:Thankful, or unthankful, sheShall my song, my idol be.Youths, then join the chorus gay!Hail this merry, merry May!Translation ofEdgar Taylor.Conrad V. Kirchberg,about 1170.
O, if to my love restored—
To her, o’er all her sex adored—
What supreme delight were mine!
How would care her sway resign?
Merrily in the bloom of May
Would I weave a garland gay.
Better than the best is she,
Purer than all purity;
For her spotless self alone,
I will praise this changeless one:
Thankful, or unthankful, she
Shall my song, my idol be.
Youths, then join the chorus gay!
Hail this merry, merry May!
Translation ofEdgar Taylor.Conrad V. Kirchberg,about 1170.
FROM “ANGLING REMINISCENCES.”
FROM “ANGLING REMINISCENCES.”
FROM “ANGLING REMINISCENCES.”
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!Meet the morn upon the lea;Are the emeralds of the springOn the angler’s trysting-tree?Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!Are there buds on our willow-tree?Buds and birds on our trysting-tree?Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!Have you met the honey bee,Circling upon rapid wing,'Round the angler’s trysting-tree?Up, sweet thrushes, up and see!Are there bees at our willow-tree?Birds and bees at the trysting-treeSing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!Are the fountains gushing free?Is the south wind wanderingThrough the angler’s trysting-tree?Up, sweet thrushes, tell to me!Is there wind up our willow-tree?Wind or calm at our trysting-tree?Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!Wile us with a merry glee;To the flowery haunts of spring—To the angler’s trysting-tree.Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!Are there flowers 'neath our willow-tree?Spring and flowers at the trysting-tree?Stoddart.
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!Meet the morn upon the lea;Are the emeralds of the springOn the angler’s trysting-tree?Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!Are there buds on our willow-tree?Buds and birds on our trysting-tree?Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!Have you met the honey bee,Circling upon rapid wing,'Round the angler’s trysting-tree?Up, sweet thrushes, up and see!Are there bees at our willow-tree?Birds and bees at the trysting-treeSing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!Are the fountains gushing free?Is the south wind wanderingThrough the angler’s trysting-tree?Up, sweet thrushes, tell to me!Is there wind up our willow-tree?Wind or calm at our trysting-tree?Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!Wile us with a merry glee;To the flowery haunts of spring—To the angler’s trysting-tree.Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!Are there flowers 'neath our willow-tree?Spring and flowers at the trysting-tree?Stoddart.
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!Meet the morn upon the lea;Are the emeralds of the springOn the angler’s trysting-tree?Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!Are there buds on our willow-tree?Buds and birds on our trysting-tree?
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Meet the morn upon the lea;
Are the emeralds of the spring
On the angler’s trysting-tree?
Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
Are there buds on our willow-tree?
Buds and birds on our trysting-tree?
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!Have you met the honey bee,Circling upon rapid wing,'Round the angler’s trysting-tree?Up, sweet thrushes, up and see!Are there bees at our willow-tree?Birds and bees at the trysting-tree
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Have you met the honey bee,
Circling upon rapid wing,
'Round the angler’s trysting-tree?
Up, sweet thrushes, up and see!
Are there bees at our willow-tree?
Birds and bees at the trysting-tree
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!Are the fountains gushing free?Is the south wind wanderingThrough the angler’s trysting-tree?Up, sweet thrushes, tell to me!Is there wind up our willow-tree?Wind or calm at our trysting-tree?
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Are the fountains gushing free?
Is the south wind wandering
Through the angler’s trysting-tree?
Up, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
Is there wind up our willow-tree?
Wind or calm at our trysting-tree?
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!Wile us with a merry glee;To the flowery haunts of spring—To the angler’s trysting-tree.Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!Are there flowers 'neath our willow-tree?Spring and flowers at the trysting-tree?Stoddart.
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Wile us with a merry glee;
To the flowery haunts of spring—
To the angler’s trysting-tree.
Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
Are there flowers 'neath our willow-tree?
Spring and flowers at the trysting-tree?
Stoddart.
I feel a newer life in every gale;The winds that fan the flowers,And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,Tell of serener hours—Of hours that glide unfelt away,Beneath the sky of May.The spirit of the gentle south-wind callsFrom his blue throne of air;And where his whispering voice in music falls,Beauty is budding there.The bright ones of the valley breakTheir slumbers, and awake.The waving verdure rolls along the plain,And the wide forest weaves,To welcome back its playful mates again,A canopy of leaves;And from its darkening shadow floats,A gush of trembling notes.Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May;The tresses of the woods,With the light dallying of the west-wind play,And the full-brimming floods,As gladly to their goal they run,Hail the returning sun.James G. Percival.
I feel a newer life in every gale;The winds that fan the flowers,And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,Tell of serener hours—Of hours that glide unfelt away,Beneath the sky of May.The spirit of the gentle south-wind callsFrom his blue throne of air;And where his whispering voice in music falls,Beauty is budding there.The bright ones of the valley breakTheir slumbers, and awake.The waving verdure rolls along the plain,And the wide forest weaves,To welcome back its playful mates again,A canopy of leaves;And from its darkening shadow floats,A gush of trembling notes.Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May;The tresses of the woods,With the light dallying of the west-wind play,And the full-brimming floods,As gladly to their goal they run,Hail the returning sun.James G. Percival.
I feel a newer life in every gale;The winds that fan the flowers,And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,Tell of serener hours—Of hours that glide unfelt away,Beneath the sky of May.
I feel a newer life in every gale;
The winds that fan the flowers,
And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,
Tell of serener hours—
Of hours that glide unfelt away,
Beneath the sky of May.
The spirit of the gentle south-wind callsFrom his blue throne of air;And where his whispering voice in music falls,Beauty is budding there.The bright ones of the valley breakTheir slumbers, and awake.
The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls
From his blue throne of air;
And where his whispering voice in music falls,
Beauty is budding there.
The bright ones of the valley break
Their slumbers, and awake.
The waving verdure rolls along the plain,And the wide forest weaves,To welcome back its playful mates again,A canopy of leaves;And from its darkening shadow floats,A gush of trembling notes.
The waving verdure rolls along the plain,
And the wide forest weaves,
To welcome back its playful mates again,
A canopy of leaves;
And from its darkening shadow floats,
A gush of trembling notes.
Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May;The tresses of the woods,With the light dallying of the west-wind play,And the full-brimming floods,As gladly to their goal they run,Hail the returning sun.James G. Percival.
Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May;
The tresses of the woods,
With the light dallying of the west-wind play,
And the full-brimming floods,
As gladly to their goal they run,
Hail the returning sun.
James G. Percival.