Around the May-pole on the green,
A fairy ring they tripped away;
All merriment and pleasure,
To chords of tuneful measure
They bounded by the happy Queen of May.
Though years have passed, and Time has strown
My raven locks with flakes of gray,
Fond Memory brings the hours
Of buds and blossom-showers
When in girlhood I was crowned the Queen of May.
Venetian Serenade.
Come, come to me, love!
Come, love!—Arise
And shame the bright stars
With the light of thine eyes;
Look out from thy lattice—
Oh, lady-bird, hear!
A swan on the water—
My gondola's near!
Come, come to me, love!
Come, love!—My bride!
O'er crystal in moonbeams
We'll tranquilly glide:
In the dip of the oar
A melody flows
Sweet as the nightingale
Sings to the rose.
Come, come to me, love!
Come, love!—The day
Brings warder and cloister!
Away, then—away!
Oh, haste to thy lover!
Not yon star above
Is more true to heaven
Then he to his love!
The Whip-Poor-Will.
"The plaint of the wailing Whip-poor-will,
Who mourns unseen and ceaseless sings
Ever a note of wail and wo,
Till Morning spreads her rosy wings,
And earth and sky in her glances glow."
J. R. Drake.
Why dost thou come at set of sun,
Those pensive words to say?
Why whip poor Will?—What has he done?
And who is Will, I pray?