Golden morning of the May!
All the guests are in their places--
Lilies with pale, high-bred faces--
Hawthorns in white wedding favours,
Scented with celestial savours--
Daisies, like sweet country maidens,
Wear white scolloped frills to-day;
'Neath her hat of straw the Peasant
Primrose sitteth,
Nor permitteth
Any of her kindred present,
Specially the milk-sweet cowslip,
E'er to leave the tranquil shade;
By the hedges,
Or the edges
Of some stream or grassy glade,
They look upon the scene half wistful, half afraid.

Other guests, too, are invited,
From the alleys dimly lighted,
From the pestilential vapours
Of the over-peopled town--
From the fever and the panic,
Comes the hard-worked, swarth mechanic--
Comes the young wife pallor-stricken
At the cares that round her thicken--
Comes the boy whose brow is wrinkled,
Ere his chin is clothed in down--
And the foolish pleasure-seekers,
Nightly thinking
They are drinking
Life and joy from poisoned beakers,
Shudder at their midnight madness,
And the raving revel scorn:
All are treading
To the wedding
In the freshness of the morn,
And feel, perchance too late, the bliss of being born.

And the Student leaves his poring,
And his venturous exploring
In the gold and gem-enfolding
Waters of the ancient lore--
Seeking in its buried treasures,
Means for life's most common pleasures;
Neither vicious nor ambitious--
Simple wants and simple wishes.
Ah! he finds the ancient learning
But the Spartan's iron ore;
Without value in an era
Far more golden
Than the olden--
When the beautiful chimera,
Love, hath almost wholly faded
Even from the dreams of men.
From his prison
Newly risen--
From his book-enchanted den--
The stronger magic of the morning drives him forth again.

And the Artist, too--the Gifted--
He whose soul is heaven-ward lifted.
Till it drinketh inspiration
At the fountain of the skies;
He, within whose fond embraces
Start to life the marble graces;
Or, with God-like power presiding,
With the potent