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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,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.

Hail bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire;
Woods and groves are of thy dressing;
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long!

JOHN MILTON

EMILIA ON MAY DAY.

FROM "PALAMON AND ARCITE."

Thus year by year they pass, and day by day,
Till once, 'twas on the morn of cheerful May,
The young Emilia, fairer to be seen

Than the fair lily on the flowery green

More fresh than May herself in blossoms new-
For with the rosy color strove her hue-
Waked, as her custom was, before the day,

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;

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Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair,
Adown her shoulders fell her length of hair;
A ribbon did the braided tresses bind,
The rest was loose, and wanton'd in the wind,
Aurora had but newly chas'd the night,
And purpled o'er the sky with blushing light,
When to the garden walk she took her way
To sport and trip along in cool of day,
And offer maiden vows in honor of the May.
At every turn she made a little stand,
And thrust among the thorns her lily hand,
To draw the rose; and every rose she drew,
She shook the stalk, and brush'd away the dew;
Then parti-colored flowers of white and red
She wove, to make a garland for her head:
This done, she sung and carrol'd out so clear,
That men and angels might rejoice to hear:
Our wandering Philomel forgot to sing,

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,
And all that Hybla's hives do yield,
Were into one broad mazer filled;

If thereto added all the gums

And spice that from Panchaïs comes,

The odor that Hydaspes lends,
Or Phoenix proves before she ends;

If all the air my Flora drew,
Or spirit that Zephyr ever blew,
Were put therein; and all the dew
That every rosy morning knew;
Yet all diffused upon this bower,
To make one sweet detaining hour,
Were much too little for the grace
And honor you vouchsafe the place;
But if you please to come again,
We vow we will not then with vain
And empty pastimes entertain

Your so desired, though grieved, pain;

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