XLVI. ODE, COMPOSED ON MAY MORNING. WHILE from the purpling east departs A quickening hope, a freshening glee, Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree, All Nature welcomes Her whose sway, Tempers the year's extremes ; Who scattereth lustres o'er noon-day, Like morning's dewy gleams; While mellow warble, sprightly trill, The tremulous heart excite; And hums the balmy air to still 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; Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings Warmed by thy influence, creeping things Awake to silent joy: Queen art thou still for each gay plant Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath, Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath Their puniest flower-pot-nursling dares And if, on this thy natal morn, Hath not departed, stands forlorn Still from the village-green a vow Aspires to thee addrest, Wherever peace is on the brow, Or love within the breast. Yes! where Love nestles thou canst teach The soul to love the more; Hearts also shall thy lessons reach That never loved before. Stript is the haughty one of pride, Hush, feeble lyre! weak words refuse The service to prolong! His voice shall chant, in accents clear, Throughout the live-long day, Till the first silver star appear, The sovereignty of May.. 1826. XLVII. TO MAY. THOUGH many suns have risen and set Delicious odours! music sweet, Oh 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-nor less, If yon ethereal blue With its soft smile the truth express, 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, And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Who tripping lisps a merry song 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. |