May 12.
The Month.
Hail, May! lovely May! how replenished my pails!
The young dawn o’erspreads the broad east, streaked with gold!
My glad heart beats time to the laugh of the vales,
And Colin’s voice rings through the wood from the fold.
The wood to the mountain submissively bends,
Whose blue misty summit first glows with the sun!
See! thence a gay train by the wild rill descends
To join the mixed sports:—Hark! the tumult’s begun.
Be cloudless, ye skies!—And be Colin but there;
Not dew-spangled bents on the wide level dale,
Nor morning’s first smile can more lovely appear
Than his looks, since my wishes I cannot conceal.
Swift down the mad dance, while blest health prompts to move,
We’ll court joys to come, and exchange vows of truth:
And haply, when age cools the transports of love,
Decry, like good folks, the vain follies of youth.
Bloomfield.