MAY DIRGE by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL

I WELCOME not thy coming now,
For sorrow darkeneth my brow,
And but for glad hearts wakest thou,
Fair May.

When, years ago, thou dawnedst bright,
With thy first hours blest my sight
The fairest child that e'er saw light
Of May.

She grew a gladder, blither thing
Than butterfly on purple wing,
Or happy birds which sweetly sing
In May.

'Twas she who brought my sunniest hours,
For she was lovelier than the flowers
Which bloom amid thy emerald bowers,
Bright May.

How oft, when grief had touched my heart,
She chased it with her fairy art;
Thy charms to her thou didst impart,
Glad May.

But oh! there is a treacherous smile,
Which Spring assumeth to beguile,
And many rue thy sunny wile,
False May.

A flush in her loved cheek arose,
More rich than ruby tint that glows
In western cloud when evenings close
In May.

Her dark eye brightly, strangely gleamed,
More beautiful then e'er she seemed;
Oh, who of evil nigh had dreamed
That May?

But when the snowdrop came again,
I saw that tenderest care was vain;
My Ella passed from all her pain
In May.

That precious life no skill could save;
I laid her in a quiet grave,
Where now the snowy blossoms wave
Of May.

Once more they shed their sweet perfume.
As incense o'er my darling's tomb,
Though soon departs their fragile bloom
With May.

Thou hast my child! Thy sparkling dew
Is glittering on her grave anew;
Soon thou wilt deck her father's too,
O May!

I cannot live without her here,
For earth is desolate and drear,
E'en when thy morning shineth clear,
Blithe May.

To cheer me thou canst weave no spell,
Deep sadness in my heart doth dwell,
And I must bid my last farewell
To May.

Speed, speed thy slow return, for when
Once more thou comest, then, oh then,
I shall be with my child again,
Sweet May!

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