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His voice shall chant, in accents clear,
Throughout the livelong day,
Till the first silver star appear,
The sovereignty of May.

1826.

XXXIX.

TO 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;
There are who to a birthday strain
Confine not harp and voice,
But evermore throughout thy reign
Are grateful and rejoice!

Delicious odors! music sweet,
Too sweet to pass away!

O for a deathless song to meet
The soul's desire, a lay

That, when a thousand years are told,
Should praise thee, genial Power!
Through summer heat, autumnal cold,
And winter's dreariest hour!

Earth, sea, thy presence feel,
If yon ethereal blue

nor less,

With its soft smile the truth express,
The heavens have felt it too.
The inmost heart of man, if glad,

Partakes a livelier cheer,

And eyes that cannot but be sad
Let fall a brightened tear.

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,
"Another year is ours";

And way-worn Wanderers, poorly fed,
Have smiled upon thy flowers.

Who tripping lisps a merry song
Amid his playful peers?

The tender Infant, who was long
A prisoner of fond fears;

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 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
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!

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
Or book regardless, and of that fair scene
In Nature's prodigality displayed

Before my window, oftentimes and long
I gaze upon a Portrait whose mild gleam
Of beauty never ceases to enrich

The common light; whose stillness charms the air,
Or seems to charm it, into like repose;
Whose silence, for the pleasure of the ear,
Surpasses sweetest music. There she sits,
With emblematic purity attired

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In a white vest, white as her marble neck
Is, and the pillar of the throat would be
But for the shadow by the drooping chin
Cast into that recess,
the tender shade,
The shade and light, both there and everywhere,
And through the very atmosphere she breathes,
Broad, clear, and toned harmoniously, with skill
That might from nature have been learnt in the

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

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