May

Has the old glory passed
From tender May —
That never the echoing blast
Of bugle horns merry, and fast
Dying away like the past,
Welcomes the day?
Has the old Beauty gone
From golden May —
That not any more at dawn
Over the flowery lawn,
Or knolls of the forest withdrawn,
Maids are at play?
Is the old freshness dead
Of the fairy May ?—
Ah! the sad tear-drops unshed!
Ah! the young maidens unwed!
Golden locks — cheeks rosy red!
Ah! where are they?