The Liberator

SONG OF MAY,
BY
WILLIS G. CLARK.

The spring's scented buds all around me are swelling;
There are songs in the stream—there is health in the gale;
A sense of delight in each bosom is dwelling
As float the pure daydreams o'er mountain and vale;
The desolate reign of old winter is broken—
The verdure is fresh upon every tree:
Of Nature's revival the charm, and a token
Of love, O thou Spirit of Beauty, to thee!

The sun looketh forth from the halls of the morning
And flushes the clouds that begirt his career;
He welcomes the gladness and glory, returning
To rest on the promise and hope of the year;
He fills with delight all the balm-breathing flowers;
He mounts to the zenith, and laughs on the wave,
He wakes into music the green forest-bowers,
And gilds the gay plains which the broad rivers lave.

The young bird is out on his delicate pinion—
He timidly sails in the infinite sky;
A greeting to May and her fairy dominion
He pours on the west-winds, that fragrantly sigh;
Around and above there are quiet and pleasure—
The woodlands are singing, the heaven is bright;
The fields are unfolding their emerald treasure,
And man's genial spirit is soaring in light.

Alas! for my weary and care-haunted bosom!
The spells of the spring-time arouse it no more:
The song in the wild-wood, the sheen in the blossom
The fresh-swelling fountain—their magic is o'er!
When I list to the stream, when I look on the flowers,
They tell of the past with so mournful a tone,
That I call up the throngs of my long-vanish'd hours
And sigh that their transports are over and gone.

From the far-spreading earth and the limitless heaven
There have vanished an eloquent glory and gleam:
To my sad mind no more is the influence given,
Which coloreth life with the hues of a dream;
The bloomed-purple landscape its loveliness keepeth,
I dream that a light as of old gilds the wave;
But the eye of my spirit in weariness sleepeth,
Or sees but my youth, and the visions it gave.

Yet it is not that age on my years hath descended
'Tis not that its snow-wreaths encircle my brow;
But the newness and sweetness of being are ended—
I feel not their love-kindling witchery now;
The shadows of death o'er my path have been sweeping,
There are those who have loved me debarred from the day,
The green turf is bright where in peace they are sleeping,
And on wings of remembrance my soul is away.

It is shut to the glow of this present existence—
It hears from the Past a funereal strain.
And it eagerly turns to the high-seeming distance,
Where the last blooms of earth will be garnered again;
Where no mildew the soft damask-rose cheek shall nourish,
Where grief bears no longer the poisonous sting;
Where pitiless death no dark sceptre can flourish
Or stain with his blight the luxuriant spring.

It is thus that the hopes which to others are given
Fall cold on my heart in this rich month of May
I hear the clear anthems that ring thro' the heaven,
I drink the bland airs that enliven the day.
And if gentle nature, her festival keeping
Delights not my bosom, ah! do not condemn;
O'er the lost and the lovely my spirit is weeping,
For my heart's fondest raptures are buried with them.