O! while they minister to thee, Each vying with the other, May Health return to mellow Age
With Strength her venturous brother; And Tiber, and each brook and rill Renowned in song and story, With unimagined beauty shine, Nor lose one ray of glory!
For Thou, upon a hundred streams, By tales of love and sorrow, Of faithful love, undaunted truth, Hast shed the power of Yarrow; And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, Wherever they invite Thee,
At parent Nature's grateful call, With gladness must requite Thee.
A gracious welcome shall be thine, Such looks of love and honour As thy own Yarrow gave to me When first I gazed upon her; Beheld what I had feared to see, Unwilling to surrender
Dreams treasured up from early days,
The holy and the tender.
And what, for this frail world, were all That mortals do or suffer,
Did no responsive harp, no pen, Memorial tribute offer?
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self?
Her features, could they win us,
Unhelped by the poetic voice
That hourly speaks within us?
Nor deem that localised Romance Plays false with our affections; Unsanctifies our tears-made sport For fanciful dejections :
Oh, no! the visions of the past Sustain the heart in feeling Life as she is our changeful Life, With friends and kindred dealing.
Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day In Yarrow's groves were centred ; Who through the silent portal arch Of mouldering Newark enter'd; And clomb the winding stair that once Too timidly was mounted
By the "last Minstrel," (not the last!) Ere he his Tale recounted.
Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream! Fulfil thy pensive duty,
Well pleased that future Bards should chant For simple hearts thy beauty;
To dream-light dear while yet unseen, Dear to the common sunshine,
And dearer still, as now I feel,
To memory's shadowy moonshine!
THOUGH many suns have risen and set Since thou, blithe May, wert born, And Bards, who hailed thee, may forget Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn; There are who to a birthday strain Confine not harp and voice, But evermore throughout thy reign Are grateful and rejoice!
Delicious odours! music sweet, Too sweet to pass away! Oh for a deathless song to meet The soul's desire—a lay
That, when a thousand years are told, Should praise thee, genial Power! Through summer heat, autumnal cold, And winter's dreariest hour.
Earth, Sea, thy presence feel-nor less, If yon ethereal blue
With its soft smile the truth express,
The Heavens have felt it too. The inmost heart of man if glad
Partakes a livelier cheer;
And eyes that cannot but be sad Let fall a brightened tear.
Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks
Have kindled into health!
The old, by thee revived, have said, "Another year is ours:"
And wayworn wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
Who tripping lisps a merry song Amid his playful peers?
The tender Infant who was long
A prisoner of fond fears;
But now, when every sharp-edged blast Is quiet in its sheath,
His Mother leaves him free to taste Earth's sweetness in thy breath.
Thy help is with the weed that creeps Along the humblest ground; No cliff so bare but on its steeps Thy favours may be found; But most on some peculiar nook
That our own hands have drest, Thou and thy train are proud to look, And seem to love it best.
And yet how pleased we wander forth When May is whispering, "Come! Choose from the bowers of virgin earth The happiest for your home;
Heaven's bounteous love through me is spread From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves, Drops on the mouldering turret's head, And on your turf-clad graves!"
Such greeting heard, away with sighs For lilies that must fade,
Or "the rathe primrose as it dies Forsaken" in the shade!
Vernal fruitions and desires
Are linked in endless chase : While, as one kindly growth retires, Another takes its place.
And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Mishap by worm and blight; If expectations newly blown
Have perished in thy sight;
If loves and joys, while up they sprung, Were caught as in a snare ; Such is the lot of all the young,
However bright and fair.
Lo! streams that April could not check Are patient of thy rule; Gurgling in foamy water-break, Loitering in glassy pool : By thee, thee only, could be sent Such gentle mists as glide, Curling with unconfirmed intent, On that green mountain's side.
How delicate the leafy veil
Through which yon House of God Gleams 'mid the peace of this deep dale By few but shepherds trod ! And lowly huts near beaten ways,
No sooner stand attired
In thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise Peep forth, and are admired.
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!
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