May. 
45 
Thou hast no need of us, 
Or pipe, or wire, 
That hast the golden bee, 
Ripened with fire; 
And many thousands more 
Songsters that thee adore, 
Filling earth’s grassy floor 
With new desire. 
Thou hast thy mighty herds, 
Tame and free livers ; 
Doubt not, thy music too 
In the deep rivers ; 
And the whole plumy flight, 
Warbling the day and night, 
Up at the gates of light:— 
See ! the lark quivers ! 
When, with the jacinth, 
Coy fountains are tressed, 
And for the mournful bird 
Green woods are dressed, 
That did for Tereus pine, 
Then shall our songs be thine, 
To whom our hearts incline : 
May, be thou blessed ! 
Lord Thurlow. 
