To May

Miss Porden

Where is the smile, so light and gay,
Once wont to gild the face of May,
And where the flow’ry wreath that bound
Her scented locks luxuriant round.

Now pale and wan the nymph appears,
Her brilliant eyes are dimmed with tears.
The flow’rets till her smiles command,
Droop, nor their pearly blooms expand.

Not thus her faded charms were seen,
When fair Emilia trod the green
Her amber locks were all around
With hyacinth and woodbine crowned.

The rose then opened on the scene
And joyed to deck her blooming queen
Her looks were ever bright and gay,
And poets loved to welcome May.

Say are the British nymphs less fair
Than her who struck the Theban pair,
Or have our youths less honour won
Than Arcite, or than Palamon.

No, while our nymphs in mind and face
Are fairest deemed of mortal race
Historic records still proclaim
Our youth the first in fields of fame.

The haste and dry each streaming tear
Pale Nature’s drooping spirit cheer,
And with thy sweet enchanting smile
Delight once more our happy isle.