Arise, O May! arise and see
Thine emerald robes are held for thee
By many a hundred-handed tree,
Who lift from all the fields around
The verdurous velvet from the ground,
And then the spotless vestments lay,
Smooth-folded o’er their outstretch’d arms—­
  O lovely May!  O long’d-for May! 
Wherein to fold thy virgin charms.

Thy robes are stiff with golden bees,
Dotted with gems more bright than these,
And scented by each perfumed breeze
That, blown from heaven’s re-open’d bowers,
Become the souls of new-born flowers,
Who thus their sacred birth betray;
Heavenly thou art, nor less should be—­
  O lovely May!  O long’d-for May! 
The favour’d forms that wait on thee.

The moss to guard thy feet is spread,
The wreaths are woven for thy head,
The rosy curtains of thy bed
Become transparent in the blaze
Of the strong sun’s resistless gaze: 
Then lady, make no more delay,
The world still lives, though spring be dead—­
  O lovely May!  O long’d-for May! 
And thou must rule and reign instead.

The lady from her bed arose,
Her bed the leaves the moss-bud blows
Herself a lily in that rose;
The maidens of the streams and sands
Bathe some her feet and some her hands: 
And some the emerald robes display;
Her dewy locks were then upcurled,
  And lovely May—­the long’d-for May—­
Was crown’d the Queen of all the World!

THE SEARCH.

Let us seek the modest May,
    She is down in the glen,
      Hiding and abiding
    From the common gaze of men,
  Where the silver streamlet crosses
  O’er the smooth stones green with mosses,
      And glancing and dancing,
    Goes singing on its way—­
We shall find the modest maiden there to-day.

Let us seek the merry May,
    She is up on the hill,
      Laughing and quaffing
    From the fountain and the rill. 
  Where the southern zephyr sprinkles,
  Like bright smiles on age’s wrinkles,
      O’er the edges and ledges
  Of the rocks, the wild flowers gay—­
We shall find the merry maiden there to-day.

Let us seek the musing May,
    She is deep in the wood,
      Viewing and pursuing
    The beautiful and good. 
  Where the grassy bank receding,
  Spreads its quiet couch for reading
      The pages of the sages,
    And the poet’s lyric lay—­
We shall find the musing maiden there to-day.

Let us seek the mirthful May,
    She is out on the strand
      Racing and chasing
    The ripples o’er the sand. 
  Where the warming waves discover
  All the treasures that they cover,
      Whitening and brightening
    The pebbles for her play—­
We shall find the mirthful maiden there to-day.

Let us seek the wandering May,
    She is off to the plain,
      Finding the winding
    Of the labyrinthine lane. 
  She is passing through its mazes
  While the hawthorn, as it gazes
      With grief, lets its leaflets
    Whiten all the way—­
We shall find the wandering maiden there to-day.