Book Seventh

May has come in — young May, the beautiful —
Wearing the sweetest chaplet of the year.
Along the eastern corridors she walks,
What time the clover rocks the earliest bee,
Her feet a-flush with sunrise, and her veil
Floating in breezy odours o'er her hair;
And ample garments, fluttering at the hem,
With pleasing rustle round her sandal shoon.
What happy voices wake the rural airs,
From hillside homes and valley cottages,
And every village is alive at dawn!
Long ere the dews have winged themselves to heaven,
In vernal paths the little bands are out,
Winning their course, with joyous steps and song,
Until the Oaklands take them to their arms,
And grove to grove, with loving voice, proclaims
The gladness which it feels. Before the sun
Hath burnt the western shadows from his dial,
Olivia and Amy through the shade
Walk in their snowy garments of the time,
O'er which the flickering sunshine, through the boughs,
Dances amid innumerous phantom leaves,
Chasing those lovely forms where'er they go,
And starring them with brightness. Arm in arm,
They print the tender mosses, and disturb
The broad-leafed mandrake, bending here and there
To pluck the violets peering through the leaves;
Or those small woodland flowers, so delicate
That fancy deems them the exotic blooms
Of fairy gardens, planted in the night,
And nurtured by the moon. With converse sweet,
And confidence which young hearts only know —
So pure themselves, they have not guessed how deep
The world is lored in treachery — they each
To each repeat the secrets of their loves.

Beneath yon whispering maple in the lawn —
A dainty lawn in middle of the woods —
The Mayday groups are gathered, and from there
The air comes laden with the breath of mirth;
And Amy and Olivia, in delight,
Withhold their steps, and gaze between the trees —
'Twixt shadowy vistas of huge mossy trunks
And drooping vines — and watch the floating forms,
Now seen, now hid, like stars 'mid broken clouds,
All wildly dancing 'neath their scented wreaths,
As they the embodied spirits were of flowers.
And presently, ascending to her throne,
One lovely maid for coronation mounts.
And thus, along the gladdened air, is borne
The song which greets her and proclaims her queen.

We bring roses, beautiful fresh roses,
Dewy as the morning and coloured like the dawn;
Little tents of odour, where the bee reposes,
Swooning in sweetness of the bed he dreams upon.
Roses, fresh roses from the young Spring borrowed,
To bind round your tresses where the zephyr loves to play.
Smile, gentle princess, while your snowy forehead
Takes the sweet coronal which crowns you queen of May!
Roses, fresh roses,
Which crown you queen of May!

We bring violets, the purple and the azure,
Which bloomed at the coming of the blue bird's wizard wing,
To greet your dear presence they oped their eyes of pleasure,
Then bowed, and they wept that you came not first of spring.
Violets, sweet violets, we plucked from April's bosom,
The last which he smiled upon before he passed away;
And thus round your forehead shall fairy bud and blossom
Shine in the coronal which crowns you queen of May!
Violets, sweet violets,
Which crown you queen of May!

We bring daisies, little starry daisies,
The angels have planted to remind us of the sky.
When the stars have vanished they twinkle their mute praises,
Telling, in the dewy grass, of brighter fields on high.
Daisies, bright daisies, to gleam around your tresses,
Until your brow shall shine like the dawning of the day;
And thus, as the coronal your lovely forehead presses,
We bow to your sceptre, and we hail you queen of May!
Daisies, bright daisies,
Which crown you queen of May!

Thus fly the hours to youthful fancy dear.
Now, midway in the afternoon, the sun
Descends upon his poised and flaming wing,
Looking aslant the earth; and still
The voice of joy, with simple music joined,
Thrills through the grove, which not to childhood only
Yields up its vernal spaces, but to youths
And maidens, who come gaily flocking in,
And round the rustic viol reel the dance.
There trusting Amy greets a welcome hand,
And, hearkening to the voice she loves, floats down
From sun to shadow in bewildering maze.
The woods swim round, the trees with linked hands
Whirl through the music and the misty light,
With giant gesture and half human smile,
Swaying as to a wind. And thus the maid,
Clasped by the arm of love, forgets the world.
Alone Olivia strolls beyond the place,
Seeking in unfrequented paths the quiet
Her soul desires — communion with itself;
And following her heart, which fondly leads,
She finds the sacred places where, in days
Long gone, she walked with Arthur at her side.
Here was the spot where from the summer school,
When childish liking heralded their love,
They wandered, and from honeysuckle boughs
Gathered nectarean fruit. Here was the place
They walked beside the brook, and gaily plucked
The spiry rushes which, with rustic art,
They wove in little baskets; such as held
The handful of wild berries, after gleaned,
From vines which stole beneath the meadow grass,
Or at the briery fence-side grew. Here was the scene —
Dear heart be calm! — where 'neath these sheltering limbs,
When the broad poplar filled his cups of gold —
Where every wandering wind and pilgrim bee
Drank, and, departing, boasted of the draught —
Her ear had caught the low first words of love,
Her hand had felt the first declaring pressure;
And now, as then, she leans against the tree.
Her hair escaping glides unto her shoulder;
From out its folds the wild flowers, like her tears,
Drip noiseless and unnoted to the ground.
The sun descends; the long and level ray
Kisses the maiden's shoulder, and glides up,
Flaming a little in the poplar's top;
Then, lighting on a fleecy cloud o'erhead,
Burns, fades and dies as embers in the ashes.