54 
Such as in Eden only dwelt, 
When angels hovered round its bowers, 
And long-haired Eve at morning knelt 
In' innocence amid the flowers: 
While the whole air was, every way, 
Filled with a perfume sweet as May. 
An d oft shall groups of children come, 
Threading their way through shady places, 
From many a peaceful English home, 
The sunshine falling on their faces; 
Starting with merry voice the thrush, 
As through green lanes they wander singing, 
To gather the sweet Hawthorn hush; 
Which, homeward in the evening bringing 
With smiling faces, they shall say, 
‘ There’s nothing half so sweet as May.’ 
An d many a poet yet unborn 
Shall link its name with some sweet lay, 
And lovers oft at early morn 
Shall gather blossoms of the May; 
With eyes bright as the silver dews, 
Which on the rounded May-buds sleep, 
And lips, whose parted smiles diffuse 
A sunshine o’er the watch they keep, 
Shall open all their white array 
Of pearls, ranged like the buds of May.” 
Spring shook the cloud on which she lay, 
And silvered o’er the Hawthorn spray, 
Then showered down the buds of May. 
Miller. 
With hope all pleases, nothing comes amiss. 
Rogers. 
