ODE. Pine not like them with arms across, Forgetting in thy care How the fast-rooted trees can toss Their branches in mid air. The humblest rivulet will take Its own wild liberties; And, every day, the imprisoned lake Then, crouch no more on suppliant knee, 141 [This and the following poem originated in the lines, "How delicate the leafy veil," &c. My daughter and I left Rydal Mount upon a tour through our mountains, with Mr and Mrs Carr, * in the month of May, 1826, and as we were going up the Vale of Newlands I was struck with the appearance of the little chapel gleaming through the veil of half-opened leaves; and the feeling which was then conveyed to my mind was expressed in the stanza referred to above. As in the case of "Liberty" and "Humanity," my first intention was to write only one poem, but subsequently I broke it into two, making additions to each part so as to produce a consistent and appropriate whole.] WHILE from the purpling east departs The star that led the dawn, For May is on the lawn. † A quickening hope, a freshening glee, Foreran the expected Power, Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree, * Doubtless the Rev. Mr Carr, of Bolton Abbey, and his wife. - ED. + Compare Thought on the Seasons, written in 1829 (p. 219).—Ed. All Nature welcomes Her whose sway The tremulous heart excite; The balance of delight. 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 bow, Thy Spirit triumphs o'er the slight; Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings Warmed by thy influence, creeping things Awake to silent joy: Queen art thou still for each gay plant Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath, Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath Their puniest flower-pot-nursling dares TO MAY. 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 That never loved before: Stript is the haughty one of pride Hush, feeble lyre! weak words refuse To yon exulting thrush the Muse Entrusts 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. 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; 143 There are who to a birthday strain Delicious odours! music sweet, That, when a thousand years are told, Earth, sea, thy presence feel-nor less, With its soft smile the truth express, The heavens have felt it too. Since thy return, through days and weeks The Old, by thee revived, have said, And wayward Wanderers, poorly fed, Who tripping lisps a merry song TO MAY. 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 That our own hands have drest, And yet how pleased we wander forth "Heaven's bounteous love through me is spread Such greeting heard, away with sighs For lilies that must fade, And what if thou, sweet May, hast known 145 |