While from the purpling east departsThe star that led the dawn,Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts,For May is on the lawn.A quickening hope, a freshening glee,Foreran the expected Power,Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree,Shakes off that pearly shower.All Nature welcomes Her whose swayTempers the year's extremes;Who scattereth lustres o'er noon-day,Like morning's dewy gleams;While mellow warble, sprightly trill,The tremulous heart excite;And hums the balmy air to stillThe balance of delight.Time was, blest Power! when youth and maidsAt peep of dawn would rise,And wander forth, in forest gladesThy birth to solemnize.Though mute the song---to grace the riteUntouched the hawthorn bough,Thy Spirit triumphs o'er the slight;Man changes, but not Thou!Thy feathered Lieges bill and wingsIn love's disport employ;Warmed by thy influence, creeping thingsAwake to silent joy:Queen art thou still for each gay plantWhere the slim wild deer roves;And served in depths where fishes hauntTheir own mysterious groves.Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath,Instinctive homage pay;Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreathTo honor thee, sweet May!Where cities fanned by thy brisk airsBehold a smokeless sky,Their puniest flower-pot-nursling daresTo open a bright eye.And if, on this thy natal morn,The pole, from which thy nameHath not departed, stands forlornOf song and dance and game;Still from the village-green a vowAspires to thee addrest,Wherever peace is on the brow,Or love within the breast.Yes! where Love nestles thou canst teachThe soul to love the more;Hearts also shall thy lessons reachThat never loved before.Stript is the haughty one of pride,The bashful freed from fear,While rising, like the ocean-tide,In flow the joyous year.Hush, feeble lyre! weak words refuseThe service to prolong!To yon exulting thrush the MuseEntrusts the imperfect song;His voice shall chant, in accents clear,Throughout the live-long day,Till the first silver star appear,The sovereignty of May.