THE QUEEN OF MAY. 
125 
devotion which gave to each house a hough; May- 
day and May-games are but like flowers thrown 
into the sea of Time, ai?d cast by the waves upon 
the long straggling shores, below the dim cliffs, 
whose heights are only overlooked by Memory. The 
“ Contented Shepherd ” lives but in such beautiful 
lines as we here quote, and which were written by a 
lady named Mary Robertson, of whom we know 
nothing, about half a century ago. We place the 
verses amongst our flowers, that they may not be 
forgotten: — 
“ By the side of a mountain o’ershadowed with trees. 
With thick clusters of vine intermingled and wove, 
I behold my thatched cottage, dear mansion of ease. 
The seat of Contentment, of Friendship, and Love. 
Each morn when I open the latch of my door. 
My heart throbs with rapture to hear the birds sing; 
And at night, when the dance in the village is o’er, 
On my pillow I strew the sweet roses of Spring. 
When I hide in the forest from noon’s scorching beam, 
While the torrents’ deep murmurs re-echoing found. 
When the herds quit their pasture to quaff the clear stream. 
And the flocks in the vale lie extended around, 
I muse—but my thoughts are contented and free, 
I regret not the splendour of riches and pride; 
The delights of retirement are dearer to me 
Than the proudest appendage to greatness allied. 
I sing, and my song is the carol of day. 
My cheek glows with health like the wild rose in bloom: 
I dance, yet forget not, though blithesome and gay, 
That I measure the footsteps that lead to the tomb. 
