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 really accustomed 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! MAY MORNING. SONG. Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Hail bounteous May, that dost inspire JOHN MILTON EMILIA ON MAY DAY. FROM "PALAMON AND ARCITE." Thus year by year they pass, and day by day, Than the fair lily on the flowery green More fresh than May herself in blossoms new- 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, And learned from her to welcome in the spring. JOHN DRYDEN. SALUTATION OF MAIA. FROM THE MASQUE OF THE PENATES." If every pleasure were distilled Of every flower in every field, If thereto added all the gums And spice that from Panchaïs comes, The odor that Hydaspes lends, If all the air my Flora drew, Your so desired, though grieved, pain; |