BEAUTIFUL and radiant May,
Is not this thy festal day?
Is not this spring revelry
Held in honour, queen, of thee?
"Tis a fair; the booths are gay,
With green boughs and quaint display;
Glasses, where the maiden's eye
May her own sweet face espy;
Ribbons for her braided hair;
Beads to grace her bosom fair;
From yon stand the juggler plays
With the rustic crowd's amaze;
There the morris-dancers stand,
Glad bells ringing in each hand;
Here the maypole rears its crest,
With the rose and hawthorn drest;
And beside are painted bands
Of strange beasts from other lands.
In the midst, like the young queen,
Flower-crowned, of the rural green,
Is a bright-cheeked girl- her eye
Blue, like April's morning sky,
With a blush, like that the rose
To her moonlight minstrel shows;
Laughing at her love the while,-
Yet such softness in the smile,
As the sweet coquette would hide
Woman's love by woman's pride.
Farewell, cities; who could bear
All your smoke and all your care,
All your pomp, when wooed away
By the azure hours of May?
Give me woodbine-scented bowers,
Blue wreaths of the violet flowers,
Clear sky, fresh air, sweet birds, and trees,
Sights and sounds and scenes like these!
Literary Gazette.
L. E. L.
OH! when wilt thou return
To thy spirit's early loves?
To the freshness of the morn,
To the stillness of the groves?
The summer-birds are calling,
Thy household porch around,
And the merry waters falling,
With sweet laughter in their sound.
And a thousand bright-veined flowers, 'Midst the banks of moss and fern, Breathe of the sunny hours
But when wilt thou return?
Oh! thou hast wandered long
From thy home without a guide,
And thy native woodland song
In thine altered heart hath died.
Thou hast flung the wealth away,
And the glory of thy spring,
And to thee the leaves' light play
Is a long-forgotten thing.--
But when wilt thou return?
Sweet dews may freshen soon
The flower, within whose urn
Too fiercely gazed the noon,
O'er the image of the sky,
Which the lake's clear bosom wore,
Darkly may shadows lie
But not for evermore,
Give back thy heart again
To the gladness of the woods,
To the birds' triumphant strain,
To the mountain solitudes!—
But when wilt thou return?
Along thine own free air,
There are young sweet voices borne-
Oh! should not thine be there?
When the night doth darken eve,
Thou thy bower mayst safely leave :-
Thou canst have no dread of night,
Having thoughts as pure as light!
Vice may then not be a-bed,
But the wicked have a dread
Of a chaste-eyed maiden's frown,
That keeps ruder passions down.
When the bat hath tired his wing,
And the cricket ceased to sing,
And the sad, sweet nightingale
'Gins to tell her tender tale;
Steal thy path across the green,
Like a shadow dimly seen,
Or a late-returning dove
Winging lonely to her love.
When the first star of the night
Beams with rays of ruddy light,
(Like the lashes of thine eyes
Startling sleep, that sweetly lies
As the bee upon his bed,
Nestling by a blue-bell's head),
Steal thy way through green and grove,
Silent as the moon doth move.
When the dew is on our feet,
Then the woodland walk is sweet;
When no eye but heaven's doth see,
Then 't is sweet with thee to be:
We have passed long hours alone,
Overseen and heard by none;
And may wile a many more,
Till our life, not love, be o'er.
BY JOHN ROBY, ESQ.
WHEN first I knew thee, still too dear,
I fondly loved thee too;
Apparent worth, a heart sincere,
Made me believe thee true.
Each cheering smile thy cheek had worn, Then lingered but for me;
But now the mask's thrown off,- I scorn To waste one thought on thee.
Thine image once came o'er my heart
Like sunshine 'mid the storm;
But now its light must hence depart,
That beam no more can warm.
No more thy smile around me plays,
And darkness turns to light,-
As soon might yon dull meteor-blaze
Dispel the gloom of night.
That rosy smile, to others given,
My heart esteems no more;
Its hue, pure as the blush of heaven,
No power can e'er restore.
It falls upon my withered breast,
But cannot cheer it now;
The fondest love we once confessed,
Now leaves no quickening glow.
And yet as bright, as sunny still,
Those smiles break o'er my soul;
To make its darkness visible,--
They 'round my bosom roll.
Passion's wild burst-the stormy brow,
Their wrath I'd sooner brave,
Than sunny smiles that mock my woe,
Like flowers that deck the grave.
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