434. THE MAY MORNING, 
Like bashful maidens at some gorgeous fete, 
.Graced by a monarch’s presence; aged Oaks 
Grow young again at their stout, loyal hearts; 
The stately brotherhood of mountain Pines 
Give forth a solemn greeting, like a band 
Of stern old monks, in sombre vestments clad. 
Like Ganymede, the Magnolia stands, 
Graceful and fair; his silver chalice lifts, 
Brimmed with night’s neetar, to the thirsty god. 
The garden Lilac, rich in purple bloom, 
Seatters her royal largess far and wide; 
And the warm bosom of the opening Rose 
Pants out its odorous sighs to the “sweet south,” 
That soft-plumed, low-voiced rover from afar, 
Whose wings are heavy with the perfume stolen 
From the cleft hearts of his forsaken loves. 
The Mignonette breathes tenderly and deep, 
The pure home-fragrance of an humble heart; 
And even the tiny Violet can make 
Her little circle sweet as love; the Vine 
Swaying in mid-air to the frolic wind, 
Rains scented blossoms on the clover tufts, 
And cheerful daisies, lighting up the grass. 
The Robin and the Oriole awake 
With the first sunshine glancing on their wings, 
To thrill the young leaves quivering round their nests 
With glad, wild gushes of exulting song,— 
To pour swift waves of clear, delicious sound 
Fresh and rejoicing, on the morning air. 


