On May Morning

For Nature's objects ever harmonize
With emulous Taste, that vulgar deed annoys;
Which loves in pensive moods to sympathize,
And meet vibrating joys
O'er Nature's pleasing things; nor slighting, deems
Pastimes, the Muse employs,
Vain and obtrusive themes.

LADY! 'tis thy desire to move
Far from the world's ungentle throng;
Lady! 'tis thy delight to love
The muses and the sons of song;
Nor Taste alone is theme to praise,
For thou can'st touch the minstrel wire;
And while thou'rt praising others' lays,
Wake notes that any may admire:
Forgive me if, in friendship's way,
I offer thee a wreath of May.

I greet thee with no gaudy flowers,
For thou art not to fashions prone;
But rather lov'st the woodland bowers,
Where Nature's beauties charm alone.
The Passion-flower and Cereus fine,
By wealth and pride are reared alone;
Yet flowers more sweet, nor less divine,
Spring's humbler fields and forests own;
To every hand and bosom given.
And nourished by the dews of heaven.

The little Violet's bloom I weave,
In wreaths I'm fain that thou should'st prize;
Although it comes at winter's eve,
And often in the tempest dies.
The Primrose, too, a doubtful dream
Of what precarious spring may be.
Yet would I not these types should seem
Aught fancy feigns resembling thee;
And thus belie thy gentle heart,
Where worldly coldness hath no part,

Here, too, are boughs of opening May,
And Lilies of the Valley fair;
Yet not with idle praise to say
They're types of what is sweet and fair.
I cropt one from the pasture hedge,
The others from the forest dell;
And thou hast given the muses pledge,
Such scenes delight thy bosom well.
'Tis not thy person wakes my lays,
Thy heart alone I mean to praise.

Forgive me though I flatter not;
Youth's beauties it was thine to wear,
Have been by riper years forgot,
Though thou hast had a happy share:
And I might praise full many a grace,
That lives and lingers yet behind;
But they like flowers shall change their place;
Not so the beauties of the mind.
So I have Ivy placed between,
To prove that worth is ever green.

The little blue Forget-me-not
Comes too on friendship's gentle plea,
Spring's messenger in every spot,
Smiling on all — "Remember me!"
But gaudy Tulips find no place
In garlands Friendship would bestow;
Yet here the Cowslip shows its face,
Prized for its sweetness more than show
Emblems to pomp and pride inclined,
Would but offend a modest mind.

I would not on May's garland fling
The Laurel to the muse and thee,
For fashion's praise, a common thing
Hath made of that once sacred tree;
And trust me, many laurels wear,
That grew not on Parnassus' Hill:
Yet dare and speed, 'tis your's to bear
The muse's laurels if you will.
Let Flattery think her wreaths divine,
Merit by its own worth will shine.

Oh! when I view the glorious host
Of Poets to my country born —
Though sorrow was the lot of most,
And many shared the sneers of scorn,
That now by time and talent tried,
Give life to fame's eternal sun —
Oh! when I mark the glorious pride
That England from her bards hath won;
E'en I, the meanest of the throng,
Warm into ecstasy and song.

The highest gifts each kingdom claims
Are Minstrels, on the Muses' throne;
And bards who've won the richest fames,
'Tis England's noblest pride to own:
Shakspeares and Miltons, they that heir
The fames immortal o'er decay;
And Scotts and Byrons, born to wear
The honours of a later day;
Who join to present past renown,
And sing eternity to crown.

These from proud laurels never won
Their fames and honours more divine;
They, like the grand eternal sun,
Confer their glories where they shine.
The laurel were a common bough,
Had it not deck'd the Poet's crown;
And even weeds, so common now,
Placed there would augur like renown,
Bloom satellites in glory's way,
Proud as the laurel and the bay.

Lady! — and thou hast chosen well,
To give the Muses thy regard;
There, taste from pleasure bears the bell,
There, feeling finds its own reward;
Though Genius often while she makes
Life's millions happy with her songs,
From Sorrow's cup her portion takes,
And struggles under bitterest wrongs —
To cares of life and song unknown,
The poet's fame be thine alone,