She was not made
Through years or moons the inner weight to bear
Which colder hearts endure till they are laid
By age in earth.
Byron.
May is here with golden tresses,
Tresses wreathed, with flowers—
Tresses starred with dew-drops gleaming
In the pleasant south-wind streaming,
Giving many-colored dresses
To the fields and bowers—
May is here with golden tresses—
Tresses wreathed with flowers,
May is here, my little maiden,
Maiden, passing fair!
Maiden, like a seraph gifted,
Ever high in thought uplifted
Earth above, with sorrow laden,
Darkness and despair—
May is here, my little maiden,
Maiden, passing fair!
Hark! a voice replieth sadly—
Sadly, like a dirge—
Sadly, like some childless mourner,
“To the church-yard they have borne her,
And torn hearts are throbbing madly,
Washed by Sorrow’s surge”—
Hark! a voice replieth sadly—
Sadly, like a dirge.
“Oh! she longed for May to greet her
With a honied kiss—
Greet her where bright eyes were glancing,
And the forms of sylphs were dancing
In the sunny lawns to meet her
With the boon of bliss—
Oh! she longed for May to greet her
With a honied kiss.
“Ah! the sun of May is sailing
Through yon azure deep—
Sailing with a face unclouded,
But sweet Lucy, pale and shrouded,
Heareth not the voice of wailing
In her dreamless sleep—
Though the sun of May is sailing
Through yon azure deep.”
Like the wondrous flower she faded,
That unfolds at night—
Faded, but in fields Elysian
She rejoiceth angel vision,
While a wreath for her is braided
That will know no blight—
Like the wondrous flower she faded,
That unfolds at night.
Oh! too oft the ghastly reaper
Moweth down the young—
Reaper, of the scythe unsparing,
For the stricken little caring,
Though they bend above the sleeper
With their hearts unstrung—
Oh! too oft the ghastly reaper
Moweth down the young.
Fare thee well! bright child of Heaven,
Heavenly dreams were thine—
Heavenly beauty gave forewarning
Of departure in life’s morning,
And to thee a soul was given
Filled with thoughts divine—
Fare thee well! bright child of Heaven,
Heavenly peace is thine!
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[1] The subject of the foregoing tribute was chosen May-Queen by her
mates. When the day of festivity arrived she lay wrapped in her little
shroud.
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