His voice shall chant, in accents clear, 1826. XXXIX. TO MAY. THOUGH many suns have risen and set That, when a thousand years are told, Earth, sea, thy presence feel,- nor less, With its soft smile the truth express, 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, 66 Another year is ours"; And way-worn Wanderers, poorly fed, Who tripping lisps a merry song The tender Infant, who was long But now, when every sharp-edged blast His Mother leaves him free to taste Thy help is with the weed that creeps Thy favors 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 Heaven's bounteous love through me is spread, Such greeting heard, away with sighs Vernal fruitions and desires Are linked in endless chase; While, as one kindly growth retires, 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, Such is the lot of all the young, However bright and fair. Lo! Streams that April could not check Are patient of thy rule; 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, A blossom from thy crown to drop, Keep, lovely May, as if by touch Of self-restraining art, This modest charm of not too much, Part seen, imagined part! 1826-1834. XL. LINES SUGGESTED BY A PORTRAIT FROM THE PENCIL OF F. STONE. BEGUILED into forgetfulness of care Due to the day's unfinished task; of pen The common light; whose stillness charms the air, Whose silence, for the pleasure of the ear, 1 In a white vest, white as her marble neck hour When the lone shepherd sees the morning spread Upon the mountains. Look at her, whoe'er Thou be, that, kindling with a poet's soul, Hast loved the painter's true Promethean craft |