Hurrah! for sweet May, it is here with its brightness, The songs of the birds, and the breath of the flowers, The sighs of the zephyrs, that woo with their lightness, And hasten the steps of the Summer’s glad hours; The earth is all gladness—the sky is all beaming With rose-tinted shadows of beauty and light, As rich as those insects whose golden wings gleaming Are twined in the hair of the maidens at night. The soft balmy air through the casement is singing In tones of delight to the bud and the bee— Like the laughter of girlhood in ecstasy ringing, When the first star of evening has bidden them free— In the depths of the forest the wild vine is creeping Around the huge oak with its blossoms of gold— And, curtained with leafiness, flowerets are sleeping, Surrounded with perfume and beauty untold. Come out with the sunrise!—all Nature is glowing— Each hill-top is bathed in the morn’s early beams; In the valley the fragrance of spring-time is blowing, To scatter the mists from the flower-margined streams; On the greensward the footsteps of children are straying, As free as the gambols of Summer’s pure air, As, ladened with health, from the mountain ’tis playing, And tossing each ringlet of gold-colored hair. With an echo of music the river is laving Its white pebbled shore, as it dances along; Now sunshine, now shade o’er its clear bosom waving, Like the world’s beaten pathway, half sorrow, half song, Far, far in the distance, the ocean is lying, As calm and as tideless as infancy’s breast; While the last lingering rays of the purple light dying Is shed on its face ere it sinks into rest. And then comes the _eve_ with its moonlight and dreaming, When melody floats on each whisper and sigh. When eyes are as bright as the stars that are gleaming, And hearts are as free as the breeze passing by. In the wildwood the song of the night-bird is blending With the light tread of dancers, and shoutings of mirth, Whilst all round are the _rosy boy’s_ arrows descending, And _love_, like our joys, has a star-lighted birth. The Summer’s young Ganymede’s cup is o’erflowing With dew-drops, distilled from the Spring’s early morn, As pure as the breath of the west wind that’s blowing, Or wishes deep down in a maiden’s heart born; Then a health for sweet May! what heart is not swelling As the mild air of Summer comes soft o’er the brow, And a thousand bright tokens all round us are telling That the May-day of _Youth_ and _Affection_ is now. * * * * * FIFTY SUGGESTIONS.