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PHEN from the purpling east departs
Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts,
For May is on the lawn.
A quickening hope, a freshening glee,
Foreran the expected Power,
Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree,
Shakes off that pearly shower.
All nature welcomes her, whose sway
Tempers the year's extremes;
W. Oreatbach, sculp.
ODE ON MAY MORNING.
Who scattereth lustres o'er noon-day,
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 bough,
Thy spirit triumphs o'er the slight;
Man changes, but not thou!
Thy feathered lieges, bill and wings,
Warmed by thy influence, creeping things
Awake to silent joy:
Queen art thou still for each gay plant
Where the slim wild deer roves;
And served in depths where fishes haunts
Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath,
Instinctive homage pay;
Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath
To honour thee, sweet May!
Where cities, fanned by thy brisk airs,
Behold a smokeless sky,
JHOUGH many suns have risen and set
And Bards, who hailed thee, may forget
Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn;
There are, who to a birth-day strain
Confine not harp and voice,
But evermore, throughout thy reign,
Are grateful and rejoice!
Delicious odours! music sweet,
The soul's desire; a lay
That, when a thousand years are told,
Should praise thee, genial Power,
Earth, sea, thy presence feel; nor less
If yon ethereal blue,
With its soft smile the truth express,
And eyes that cannot but be sad
Since thy return, through days and weeks
Of hope that grew by stealth,