Though long hath been

The trance of Nature on the naked bier
Where ruthless Winter mocked her slumbers drear
And rent with icy hand her robes of green,
That trance is brightly broken!  Glossy trees,
Resplendent meads and variegated flowers
Flash in the sun and flutter in the breeze
And now with dreaming eye the poet sees
Fair shapes of pleasure haunt romantic bowers,
And laughing streamlets chase the flying hours.

D.L.R.

The great describer of our Lost Paradise did not disdain to sing a

SONG ON MAY-MORNING.

    Now the bright Morning star, Day’s harbinger,
    Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
    The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
    The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose
        Hail bounteous-May, that dost inspire
        Mirth and youth and warm desire;
        Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
        Hill and dale do boast thy blessing. 
    Thus we salute thee with our early song,
    And welcome thee and wish thee long.

Nor did the Poet of the World, William Shakespeare, hesitate to

Do observance to a morn of May.

He makes one of his characters (in King Henry VIII.) complain that it is as impossible to keep certain persons quiet on an ordinary day, as it is to make them sleep on May-day—­once the time of universal merriment—­ when every one was wont “to put himself into triumph.”

            ’Tis as much impossible,
    Unless we sweep ’em from the doors with cannons
    To scatter ’em, as ’tis to make ’em sleep
    On May-day Morning.

Spenser duly celebrates, in his “Shepheard’s Calender,”

Thilke mery moneth of May
When love-lads masken in fresh aray,

when “all is yclad with pleasaunce, the ground with grasse, the woods with greene leaves, and the bushes with bloosming buds.”

    Sicker[043] this morowe, no longer agoe,
    I saw a shole of shepeardes outgoe
    With singing and shouting and iolly chere: 
    Before them yode[044] a lustre tabrere,[045]
    That to the many a hornepype playd
    Whereto they dauncen eche one with his mayd. 
    To see those folks make such iovysaunce,
    Made my heart after the pype to daunce. 
    Tho[046] to the greene wood they speeden hem all
    To fetchen home May with their musicall;
    And home they bringen in a royall throne
    Crowned as king; and his queene attone[047]
    Was LADY FLORA.

Spenser.

This is the season when the birds seem almost intoxicated with delight at the departure of the dismal and cold and cloudy days of winter and the return of the warm sun.  The music of these little May musicians seems as fresh as the fragrance of the flowers.  The Skylark is the prince of British Singing-birds—­the leader of their cheerful band.