the day, that the feeling which suggested them is still 
alive. In his beautiful address to May he says, — 
44 And if, on this thy natal morn, 
The pole, from which thy name 
Hath not departed, stands forlorn 
Of song, and dance, and game ; 
Still from the village green a vow 
Aspires to thee addrest, 
Wherever peace is on the brow. 
Or love within the breast.” 
May we be allowed another quotation from the same 
author, addressed to the same auspicious season; it will 
serve, perhaps, as a useful hint to those who complain 
that May is not the beautiful month it used to be : — 
Season of fancy and of hope, 
Permit not for one hour 
A blossom from thy crown to drop, 
Nor add to it a flower ! 
Keep lovely May as if by touch 
Of self restraining art, 
This modest charm of not too much, 
Part seen, imagined part.” 
But to return to the hawthorn. By the ancients it 
was considered the emblem of hope; and on that 
