May-Day

It is the choice time of the year,
For the violets now appear;
Now the rose receives its birth,
And pretty primrose decks the earth.
Then to the May-pole come away,
For it is now a holiday.

ACTAEON AND DIANA.

As I was lying in bed this morning, enjoying one of those half-dreams,
half-reveries, which are so pleasant in the country, when the birds are
singing about the window, and the sunbeams peeping through the curtains,
I was roused by the sound of music. On going down-stairs, I found a
number of villagers dressed in their holiday clothes, bearing a pole
ornamented with garlands and ribands, and accompanied by the village
band of music, under the direction of the tailor, the pale fellow who
plays on the clarionet. They had all sprigs of hawthorn, or, as it is
called, "the May," in their hats, and had brought green branches and
flowers to decorate the Hall door and windows. They had come to give
notice that the May-pole was reared on the green, and to invite the
household to witness the sports. The Hall, according to custom, became a
scene of hurry and delightful confusion. The servants were all agog with
May and music; and there was no keeping either the tongues or the feet
of the maids quiet, who were anticipating the sports of the green, and
the evening dance.

I repaired to the village at an early hour to enjoy the merry-making.
The morning was pure and sunny, such as a May morning is always
described. The fields were white with daisies, the hawthorn was covered
with its fragrant blossoms, the bee hummed about every bank, and the
swallow played high in the air about the village steeple. It was one of
those genial days when we seem to draw in pleasure with the very air we
breathe, and to feel happy we know not why. Whoever has felt the worth
of worthy man, or has doted on lovely woman, will, on such a day, call
them tenderly to mind, and feel his heart all alive with long-buried
recollections. "For thenne," says the excellent romance of King Arthur,
"lovers call ageyne to their mynde old gentilnes and old servyse, and
many kind dedes that were forgotten by neglygence."

Before reaching the village, I saw the May-pole towering above the
cottages, with its gay garlands and streamers, and heard the sound of
music. I found that there had been booths set up near it, for the
reception of company; and a bower of green branches and flowers for the
Queen of May, a fresh, rosy-cheeked girl of the village.

A band of morris-dancers were capering on the green in their fantastic
dresses, jingling with hawks' bells, with a boy dressed up as Maid
Marian, and the attendant fool rattling his box to collect contributions
from the bystanders. The gipsy