Now is the time when, after sparkling showers, 2 Her starry wreaths the virgin jasmine weaves; Now murmurous bees return with sunny hours; And light wings rustic quick through glinting leaves; Music in every bough; on mead and lawn May lifts her fragrant altars to the dawn. Now life, with every moment, seems to start 3 In air, in wave, on earth--above, below; And o'er her new-born children, Nature's heart Heaves with the gladness mothers only know; On poet times the month of poets shone-- May deck'd the world, and Arthur fill'd the throne. Hard by a stream, amidst a pleasant vale 4 King Arthur held his careless holiday:-- The stream was blithe with many a silken sail, The vale with many a proud pavilion gay; While Cymri's dragon, from the Roman's hold,[1] Spread with calm wing o'er Carduel's domes of gold. Dark, to the right, thick forests mantled o'er 5 A gradual mountain sloping to the plain; Whose gloom but lent to light a charm the more, As pleasure pleases most when neighbouring pain; And all our human joys most sweet and holy, Sport in the shadows cast from Melancholy. Below that mount, along the glossy sward 6 Were gentle groups, discoursing gentle things; Or listening idly where the skilful bard Woke the sweet tempest of melodious strings; Or whispering love--I ween, less idle they, For love's the honey in the flowers of May. Some plied in lusty race the glist'ning oar; 7 Some, noiseless, snared the silver-scaled prey; Some wreathed the dance along the level shore; And each was happy in his chosen way. Not by one shaft is Care, the hydra kill'd, So Mirth, determined, had his quiver fill'd. Bright 'mid his blooming Court, like royal Morn 8 Girt with the Hours that lead the jocund Spring, When to its smile delight and flowers are born, And clouds are rose-hued,--shone the Cymrian King. Above that group, o'er-arch'd from tree to tree, Thick garlands hung their odorous canopy; And in the midst of that delicious shade 9 Up sprang a sparkling fountain, silver-voiced, And the bee murmur'd and the breezes play'd: In their gay youth, the youth of May rejoiced-- And they in hers--as though that leafy hall Chimed the heart's laughter with the fountain's fall. Propped on his easy arm, the King reclined, 10 And glancing gaily round the ring, quoth he-- "'Man,' say our sages, 'hath a fickle mind, And pleasures pall, if long enjoyed they be.' But I, methinks, like this soft summer-day, 'Mid blooms and sweets could wear the hours away;--