My memory, long accustom'd to receive
In deep-engraven lines, each varying trait
Past Times and Seasons wore, can find no date
Thro’ many years, O! MAY, when thou hadst leave,
As now, of the great SUN, serene to weave
Thy fragrant chaplets; in poetic state
To call the jocund Hours on thee to wait,
Bringing each day, at morn, at noon, at eve,
His mild illuminations.— Nymph, no more
Is thine to mourn beneath the scanty shade
Of half-blown foliage, shivering to deplore
Thy garlands immature, thy rites unpaid;
Meads dropt withgold again to thee belong,
Soft gales, luxuriant bowers, and wood-land song.