ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 
2 bl 
THE LOST MAY. 
W HEN May, with cowslip braided locks. 
Walks through the land in green attire. 
And burns in meadow grass the phlox 
His torch of purple fire; 
When buds have burst the silver sheath, 
And shifting pink, and gray, and gold 
rSteal o’er the woods, while fair beneath 
The bloomy vales unfold; 
When, emerald bright, the hemlock stands 
New feathered, needled new the pine; 
And, exiles from the orient lands, 
The turbaned tulips shine; 
When wild azaleas deck the knoll, 
And cinque-foil stars the fields of home, 
And winds that take the white-weed, roll 
The meadows into foam; 
Then from the jubilee I turn 
To othe.r Mays that I have seen, 
Where more resplendent blossoms burn, 
And statelier woods are green. 
Mays, when my heart expanded first, 
A honeyed blossom, fresh with dew; 
And one sweet wind of heaven dispersed 
The only clouds I knew. 
For she, whose softly murmured name 
The music of the month expressed. 
Walked by my side, in hoi}' shame 
Of girlish love confessed. 
The budding chestnuts overhead. 
Their sprinkled shadows in the lane. 
Blue flowers along the brooklet’s bed, 
I see them all again ! 
The old, old tale of girl and boy, 
Repeated ever, never old; 
To each in turn the gates of joy, 
The gates of heaven unfold. 
And when the punctual May arrives, 
With cowslip-garland on her brow, 
We know what once she gave our lives, 
And cannot give us now ! 
Taylor. 
THE MAY FLOWER. 
(TRAILING arbutus.) 
From the souvenir “Our National Flower,” by permisi 
W HEN stern New England’s tardy spring 
First thrills with life her rugged breast, 
’Tis I, who, shyly venturing, 
Peep forth, her earliest, sweetest guest. 
’Twas I the Pilgrim Fathers found 
When April called them to the wood, 
Trailing upon the leaf-strewn ground, 
Fak sign of nature’s yielding mood. 
ion of the publishers, Messrs. L. Prang & Co., Boston. 
My fragrance, like a message sweet, 
Their spirits touched, and reverently 
They chose the blossom at their feet, 
The symbol of their faith to be. 
They, too, had wrapped with roughest forms 
The gracious gospel that they loved; 
They, top, had braved life’s rudest storms. 
Their simple courage, simply proved. 
They marked my petals’ tender hue, 
Soft flushing in the light of day; 
My fragile grace they guarded knew 
Amid my rough leaves’ disarray. 
They, too, should prosper in the land 
Where trusting flowers undaunted thrive 
Their race, deep rooted, firm should stand, 
And freedom’s cause triumphant live. 
Hopestill Goodwin. 
