THE SONG OF MAY.
To mountains hoar and russet plain,
A joyous sprite, I come again;
With many a sweet and joyous strain,
And break grim winter's icy chain.
From yon blue chambers far above,
On brilliant wings, I lightly move;
I come, and lead the cooing dove,
And all the choir that fill the grove.
To leafy wild, and city's hum,
The queen of joy, I come, I come;
The little rills no more are dumb;
But hail me, as I come, I come.
With breath that glads both land and main,
I come again, I come again!
On hillside, bank, and level plain,
The flowers appear, in beauteous train.
To blooming land and azure main,
Each year I duly come again;
A stranger from yon heavenly plain
Of light and bliss; as poets feign.