THE NEW MONTHLY BELLE ASSEMBLÉE. MAY, 1844. AGAIN comes the pleasant month, so long consecrated in poesy to love-the bright and beautiful May. Winter, with his gloomy attendants, wind and storm, hail and snow, has departed to his chill dominions in another hemisphere, surrendering his throne to the sweet laughing Spring, merriest season of our changeful year. Summer, indeed, brings many beauties, but they are accompanied by disadvantages; drought too often scorches all verdure, and fainting beneath noontide's burning heat, we long for cooler skies; when evening comes, relief is experienced, but the charms of nature are no longer fully visible; then we sigh, thinking of merry May, or wish impatiently for brown October. Autumn at last arrives, and it is certainly a beautiful and delightful season. At no other period does the landscape exhibit such rich colouring, or the heavens appear so resplendent; the various hues worn by different trees, orange and brown and crimson, mingled with many shades of greenthe bright appearance of the ripe cornfields, waving in each breeze like lakes of molten gold-the purple haze hanging over the distant hills-the deep azure of the skies-unite to form a picture unequalled by any which nature presents during summer. But, together with this beautiful aspect, the scenery assumes a mournful air-everything reminds us of decay and death, for all are gradually preparing for that annual slumber which is so strikingly typical of our own sleep in the grave. The flowers have faded, and their seeds are falling to earth, there to perish in seeming, but in reality to rise again, wearing another and better shape, even as our bodies must become to all appearance annihilated, and afterwards rise, purified and spiritual. We cannot avoid musing on these things in autumn, and hence participate in the melancholy by which we are encircled. This feeling does not exist in spring, for then nothing induces it. With the departure of winter the grass and herbs are starting into life, the forest trees put forth their young green leaves, and the very animals, full of gaiety and mirth, gambol playfully around. Let us look on nature's face some fine day; are not all the objects that meet Our gaze full of promise? The corn springs freshly in the furrows, showing that the northern blasts have not injured it-vernal flowers are unfolding their rich petals on sunny banks-the rooks, while assiduously engaged in feeding their young ones, caw joyously among the old elm tops-the skylark is hanging poised in the blue sky at a viewless height, his sweet melody all the while gushing freely forth, as if an angel were singing, recumbent on some ambient cloud. In every grove there is a concert provided for our entertainment,a concert, too, of choicer music than art can possibly afford; on every herb some little insect sits, contributing its share of merry sound to the chorus sent up to the Creator from every sentient being. The young lambs, emblems of pure innocence, are frisking through the green meadows by the side of their woolly dams; what can be more pleasing or interesting than their sportive frolics?-now racing with each other-anon, dancing together on sun-lit mossy hillocks. Happy, happy creatures! They are undisturbed by dreams of woe. At this sweet season all the animated world seems happy. Look in yonder clear stream that winds among the tall willows, how fast the beautiful trout are leaping, rejoicing in the warm sunshine; they also are full of joy, and heed not the busy angler with his treacherous flies and deceitful baits. A clear day suits not his purpose-so they will be unmolested. Universal peace appears to reign, nor can we persuade ourselves that the kite who is hovering yonder on fanning pinions entertains any felonious intentions towards the poultry yard; he looks so much as if he were only enjoying the quiet scene beneath him. Everything is tranquil-everything is gay. Who can harbour mournful thoughts in the midst of so much happiness? who can even remember that death visits a creation so fair, and that all those brilliant objects contain the hidden seeds of mortality? Unconsciously our minds become imbued with the holy calm of nature, who thus indeed speaks to us "A parent's language, and in tones as soft As e'er hush'd infant on its mother's breast Woos us to learn her love." crime, have at times felt its benign influence, and dropping a tear of remorse, joined, however unwillingly, the chorus of thanksgiving praise spontaneously offered to the Giver of all good gifts by the creatures he has wonderfully formed. Their good angel visited them, if it were only for a season, and who knoweth the effects of his brief visitation? They err foolishly, as well as greatly, who deny the ministration of guardian spirits. But come, the sun shines brightly on yonder budding grove; thither will we go, where the rainbow-winged butterflies are sporting, and the wild birds building their curious nests. What a profusion of flowers carpet the ground, variegating it with lovelier colours than human art ever blended in its most exquisite productions; and not one of all those flowers that are so eagerly sought for by wayside children" to bind into glorious coronals, but has received consecration from some deathless child of song. Primroses in abundance, delicate blossoms of spring, growing in yellow tufts on the green slope beneath tangled hazels and briers; and see, nestling close to them, as if seeking a still deeper covert, the blue violets 66 "Dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, And shall we refuse to listen to her; closing our ears against the lessons she inculcates, and hardening our hearts to withstand her sweet influences? O rather let us seek communion with her in solitude, and amid cool recesses of time-consecrated woods, or on the lofty peaks of eternal hills, canopied only by the liquid firmament, let us hearken to her dulcet melodies, and study the sacred mysteries which she so lovingly spreads Violets! how many ideas drawn from deep wells before us. Mysteries are they in which we have a of exhaustless poesy are associated with their very portion, though we but imperfectly understand it, name! How many remembrances of by-gone dimmed and clouded as our mental vision has years and early happiness are vividly portrayed on become by sensual impurities; mysteries are memory's living tablets whenever we stoop to gather they which we can never wholly comprehend until them! The home of our infancy, perhaps no we have laid aside mortality. Yet in our medita- longer ours, and parted from us by many weary tive hours, when wandering alone through fair miles, rises as fresh before our mental sight, as scenes in the golden spring-time, admiring the when we left it last-for ever. The companions of beauties visible on every side, and forgetful for a our childish sports, long ago severed from us by time of the toils and evils of daily life, there come the changes of life, gone to far climes, or to that into our minds unsummoned thoughts, which words spirit-land from whence there is no return; the can ill express-indescribable sensations of peace separated-the estranged-and the dead stand and blessed tranquillity drawn from earth's quietude again beside us, the same laughing, loving beings and repose. It were difficult to account for them. with whom we used to wander in the wild-woods Perhaps they are reminiscences of primal happiness, searching for early violets. Recollections, too, transmitted to us through a thousand generations love-and who hath not at some period loved ?—are from our first great progenitor-fugitive and dream-intimately connected with these simple flowers: like memories of that glorious but too transient season when Adam walked in Eden and knew not sin. We often bear in our fleshly lineaments the likeness of ancestors who died five centuries ago; but what resemblance or kindred has our spiritual existence to theirs? Who shall answer? Verily this is a subject which passes all human understanding. Longer we will not dwell upon it, but turn again to the green fields and woods, and listen to the songs of little birds, and make ourselves garlands of sweet flowers, and thank God in sincerity of heart that, although we have sinned daily in all our deeds, he has not rendered earth a desert for our transgressions, but mercifully left us numberless pleasures freely to enjoy. The hymn of universal nature! Who has not listened to and participated in it? Not the virtuous only, they who study to eschew evil and seek the paths of righteousness, but men abandoned seemingly by heaven, and given over utterly to of thus hearts callous to the most persuasive eloquence that human lips can pour, have melted at the sight of the modest violet. Truly this grove is a natural garden, so various are the blossoms it produces. Look what a profusion of slender hare bells, shaking their graceful cups when the almost imperceptible zephyr kisses them; and broad yellow king-cups, that woo the sunbeams and scorn concealment; while, scattered far and wide, the half-blown daisy,"childhood's flower," as Elliot has beautifully styled it, peeps up amongst the verdant herbage. Nor are these all; not distant is the scarlet pimpernal, whose warning petals are a weatherglass to the rustic; and, in open spaces of smooth green sward, tall cowslips lift their ruby spotted tubes, laden with delicious nectar. Neither will we despise the humblest, for even those flaunting dandelions, though the gardener would view them with rancour, afford a rich feast to the wandering bees, whose musical hum comes so MAY-DAY. soothingly to our ears. And what are those little pale blue flowers, nestling beneath the fragments of yonder broken wall? They are flowers whose name in every language is the same expression; an expression embodying in few words hopes and and sorrow-and a fervent prayer-Forget-me-not! O treasures of May! flowers of the fields and woodlands! ye have indeed voices, although the flesh ear hears them not; but when ye bow gently in the sunshine, and the breeze communing with you, waves your bright bells like tresses of a conscious beauty, then do ye discourse eloquent but soundless speech, till the mind listens eagerly as if seraphs were whispering nigh. Shall we lie down on the smooth bank, canopied by the budding hazels, and serenaded by the linnet's song, and close our eyes upon the visible beauties, which yet will not vanish wholly, to meditate upon those which are invisible, and so glide away out of a waking into a sleeping dream? Or shall we in our glowing fancies, mingling realities with unrealities, strive to recall quaint fashions of other days, blending the May glories about us with the May customs that have departed, until we enjoy a brief but soothing vision of MAY-DAY IN THE doubts-foud recollections and anxious fears-love OLDEN TIME. The lark is up, soaring-soaring-higher, and higher still-that he of all God's creatures may earliest see the first sun-burst, and welcome the morn-birth with a triumphant hymn: for rapidly are the shadows receding into the far west, and light flashes brilliantly along the eastern skies. The air is cool; yet it is not like the coldness of winter and early spring, but balmy and refreshing, for there is fragrance ascending around from the dew-jewelled chalices of many blooms that already glisten like living diamonds amid increasing day. We are abroad in the grassy meadows, though the second cock has but just crowed, and the sheep and kine still rest on their turf couches: but we are not alone. Hear ye not that old song of the Saxon days, carolled in silver tones that might make the very larks pause to listen ?-now another answers it--and anon a chorus of merry voices reply in the distance. Village maidens have left their cottages betimes, and are wandering through the calm valley, carefully collecting the precious May-dew, and searching with breathless eagerness for the four-leaved clover. What need have they of cosmetics whose cheeks shame the wild roses, and whose brows resemble the hawthorn blooms they gather? It is an ancient rule, and the bright drops will preserve their beauty through summer's coming heats: nay, the healthful exercise itself will increase their charms. Truly they were worthy blame who would not now "walk into the sweet meadows, and green woods, there to rejoice their spirits with the beauty and savour of sweet flowers, and with the noise of birds praising God in their kind;" therefore, at this matin hour not only are we abroad with the village damsels, but the King and Queen have gone out among Windsor's green glades, and the nobles have left their 259 castles, and even the Lord Mayor of London with his grave brethren have ridden forth a Maying. Noon is in the sky, cloudless and bright, but not oppressive; so balmy is the breeze that sighs along yonder hills, and scarcely lifts the trembling aspen leaves. There is a ceaseless hum of busy insects, and the singing bees fly to and fro incessantly, bearing aromatic honey to their straw palaces; plunderers gentle and forgiven. The village is all astir, not with business but joy; for this is no day of labour. We are on the green, smooth and even as three piled velvet, and spangled with a thousand gold and silver stars-kingcups and daisies. High in the centre stands the lofty May-pole, its summit decorated with a huge garland of hawthorn and flowers; gay coloured streamers float from it, mingled with festoons of valley blossoms. This is the holy ground of Mayday festivity and pomp. See! a circle of maidens strewed with violets, and sitting upon it a fair and youths surrounding a throne of emerald turf young creature crowned with a hawthorn wreath. We recognise the May-queen, and willing homage do we render, for as we live, that blooming girl's features have assumed the likeness of our own bright lady-love, even thine, gentle Emily! Would thou wert with us now, for of a truth danger lurks in such a likeness. Brilliant eyes! Soul enslavers! turn not so kindly to us: lips! ye living and speaking roses; we will not gaze fear not our constancy; triply armed are we in upon you :—yet, Emily! though thou art distant, thy love. Is there a diademed sovereign half so happy as the flower-crowned May-queen? or so sure of his subjects' fealty as she of hers, whose free voices placed her on the rural throne? Why, her guard is one an Indian emperor might envy-that bevy of radiant, laughing damsels, with their snowy robes and green wreaths; for the traitor lives not, thrice hardened though he were in guilt, who durst break through the beauteous ring. They dance! not in courtly guise, to new and foreign strains, but easily-gracefully withal-to tunes as old as the tree that overshadows them. Ah! there are hearts now beating quick with the first throbs of a passion which will become the joy or woe of future years. May the reality prove as bright as the anticipation! Guisers too, and morris-dancers! Truly here are diversions enow, and difficult must he be to pleasure, who cannot find delight withal; and lo yon where comes Robin Hood from green Sherwood, and his merry men all; Little John, and Scarlet, Allan-a-Dale and Scathelock, and Friar Tuck, and with them fair maid Marian. O for life in the forest, under the oak and elm! with the rocks for a shelter, and the thicket for a home! where the dun deer bound through unvisited glades, and the minstrel lark carols the loudest, and "the woodwele sings, and will not cease, sitting upon the spray." Twilight is descending. The hum of insects has died away; the birds have ceased their melody, |