On May. Written In April Mdcclxi.
18th Century John Cunningham EnglishON MAY.
WRITTEN IN APRIL MDCCLXI.
BY THE SAME.
THE virgin, when soften'd by May, Attends to the villager's vows; The birds sweetly bill on the spray, And poplars embrace with their boughs. On Ida bright Venus may reign, Ador'd for her beauty above; We shepherds, that live on the plain, Hail May as the mother of Love.
From the west, as it wantonly blows, Fond Zephyr caresses the pine; The bee steals a kiss from the rose, And willows and woodbines entwine; The pinks by the rivulet's side, That border the vernal alcove, Bend downwards to kiss the soft tide, For May is the mother of Love.
May tinges the butterfly's wing; He flutters in bridal array: If the larks and the linnets now sing, Their music is taught them by May. The stock-dove, recluse with her mate, Conceals her fond bliss in the grove; And murmuring seems to repeat, That May is the mother of Love.
The goddess will visit you soon; Ye virgins, be sportive and gay; Get your pipes, oh ye shepherds, in tune, For music must welcome the May. Would Damon have Phillis prove kind, And all his keen anguish remove, Let him tell a soft tale, and he'll find, That May is the mother of Love.