'Du Wonne der Natur.'—Schiller.

O come away to the woodland bowers,
Where the shade is soft and sweet,
And pillow the head on the first bright flowers
Where the angels have set their feet;
And there, while every breathing thing
Bids the spirit of ours be gay,
Let us lift as with one voice and sing
A welcome to the May.
O the May, the May, the May,
The bright and sunny May!
If this life of mine is bound to be
A life of constant toil to me,
Let me lighten it with the May.
The primrose blooms wherever a rill
Gives music to the dell;
The violet peeps with fair good will
Beside the mossy well;
The birds leap out in joyous throngs
From the snowy hawthorn spray,
And stir the air with a thousand songs
In honour of the May.
The gentle clouds within the sky
Beseem a silver mass,
Whose shadows glide all softly by
Upon the daisied grass;
And when their fleecy richness parts,
The blue peeps out all gay,
So come and let us fill our hearts
With the wisdom of the May.
I would not waste one single thought
On the sour and bigot breast,
That points out heaven as its lot,
And gloom for all the rest;
Whose lip with hate and scorn can part,
But may no smile display,
And wears deep down in the dull dim heart
December instead of May.
O, if at times within thy soul
A bitterness arise,
And restless thoughts that fix their goal
In gloom before thine eyes,
Look round you in an hour like this
And all will flee away,
And leave behind a better mind,
And the beauty of the May.
What though our lot be lowly set
In labour's brotherhood?
Stand up, and fling away regret,
The world is wise and good.
Work! this is life's eternal task
That all have to obey,
And duty done is but the sun
That gives this life a May.
If on this head of mine should light
The snowy hue of years,
Still may this earth have to my sight
The look which now it wears;
So that, if pain and care should smart
The twilight of decay,
Let us ever have within our heart
The light and warmth of May.
Then come away to the woodland bowers,
Where the stream is swift and strong,
And, if other hearts be sad, let ours
This day exult in song.
Why, 'twere a shame to the brow that wears
Its world-look to-day,
And the heart that still will hoard its cares,
And this the month of May.
O the May, the May, the May,
The bright and sunny May!
If this life of mine is bound to be
A life of constant toil to me,
Let me lighten it with the May.