For we will have the wanton fawns,
That frisking skip about the lawns,
The Panisks and the Sylvans rude,
Satyrs, and all that multitude,
To dance their wilder rounds about,
To cleave the air with many a shout,
As they would hunt poor Echo out
Of yonder valley, who doth flout,
Their rustic noises, to visit whom,
You shall behold whole bevies come

Of gaudy nymphs, whose tender calls
Well tuned unto the many falls

Of sweet and several sliding rills,

That stream from tops of those less hills,
Like so many silver quills,

When Zephyr them with music fills.
For them Favonius here shall blow

New flowers, that you shall see to grow-
Of which each hand a part shall take,
And for your heads fresh garlands make,
Wherewith, while they your temples round,
An air of several birds shall sound

An Io Pæon, that shall drown

The acclamation at your crown.

All this, and more than I have give gift of saying,
May vows, so you will oft come here a Maying.

BEN JONSON, 1574-1687.

SONG

FROM THE GERMAN OF THE MINNESINGERS.

Up, up! let us greet

The season so sweet,

For winter is gone,

And the flowers are springing,

And little birds singing,

Their soft notes ringing,

And bright is the sun!
Where all was dressed
In a snowy vest;
There grass is growing,
With dew-drops glowing,

And flowers are seen
On beds of green.

All down in the grove,
Around, above,

Sweet music floats;
As now loudly vying,
Now softly sighing,
The nightingale's plying
Her tuneful notes;
And joyous at spring,
Her companions sing,
Up, maidens, repair
To the meadows so fair,

And dance we away,
This merry May.

GOTTFRIED VON NIFEN, about 1200.

Translation of E. TAYLOR.

MAY.

FROM THE GERMAN MINNESINGERS.

May, sweet May, again is come-
May, that frees the land from gloom;
Children, children, up and see

All her stores of jollity!

On the laughing hedgerow's side

She hath spread her treasures wide;

She is in the greenwood shade,
Where the nightingale hath made
Every branch and every tree

Ring with her sweet melody;

Hill and dale are May's own treasures.
Youths, rejoice! In sportive measures

Sing ye! join the chorus gay!
Hail this merry, merry May!

Up, then, children! we will go
Where the blooming roses grow;

In a joyful company

We the bursting flowers will see:

Up; your festal dress prepare!

Where gay hearts are meeting-there

May hath pleasures most inviting,

Heart, and sight, and ear delighting.

Listen to the bird's sweet song;

Hark! how soft it floats along!

Courtly dames our pleasures share!
Never saw I May so fair;
Therefore dancing will we go.

Youths, rejoice! the flowerets blow!

Sing ye! join the chorus gay!

Hail this merry, merry May!

Our manly youths, where are they now?

Bid them up and with us go,

To the sporters on the plain :

Bid adieu to care and pain,

Now, thou pale and wounded lover!
Thou thy peace shalt soon recover,
Many a laughing lip and eye
Speaks the light heart's gayety;
Lovely flowers around we find,

In the smiling verdure twined;

Richly steeped in May-dews glowing.
Youths, rejoice! the flowers are blowing!

Sing ye! join the chorus gay!
Hail this merry, merry May!

O, if to my love restored-
To her, o'er all her sex adored-
What supreme delight were mine!
How would care her sway resign?
Merrily in the bloom of May
Would I weave a garland gay.
Better than the best is she,
Purer than all purity;

For her spotless self alone,

I will praise this changeless one :
Thankful, or unthankful, she

Shall my song, my idol be.

Youths, then join the chorus gay!
Hail this merry, merry May!

Translation of EDGAR TAYLOR.

CONRAD V. KIRCHBERG, about 1170.

SONG.

FROM ANGLING REMINISCENCES."

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Meet the morn upon the lea;
Are the emeralds of the spring
On the angler's trysting-tree?

Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
Are there buds on our willow-tree?
Buds and birds on our trysting-tree?

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Have you met the honey bee,
Circling upon rapid wing,

'Round the angler's trysting-tree?
Up, sweet thrushes, up and see!
Are there bees at our willow-tree?
Birds and bees at the trysting-tree

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Are the fountains gushing free?
Is the south wind wandering

Through the angler's trysting-tree?
Up, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
Is there wind up our willow-tree?
Wind or calm at our trysting-tree?

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Wile us with a merry glee;
To the flowery haunts of spring-
To the angler's trysting-tree.

Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!

Are there flowers 'neath our willow-tree?

Spring and flowers at the trysting-tree?

MAY.

I feel a newer life in every gale;

The winds that fan the flowers,

And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,
Tell of serener hours-

Of hours that glide unfelt away,
Beneath the sky of May.

The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls

From his blue throne of air;

And where his whispering voice in music falls,

Beauty is budding there.

The bright ones of the valley break

Their slumbers, and awake.

STODDART.

The waving verdure rolls along the plain,
And the wide forest weaves,

To welcome back its playful mates again,
A canopy of leaves;

And from its darkening shadow floats,
A gush of trembling notes.

Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May;
The tresses of the woods,

With the light dallying of the west-wind play,
And the full-brimming floods,

As gladly to their goal they run,
Hail the returning sun.

JAMES G. PERCIVAL.