It is the evening before the first of May, and the boys are lookingforward to a May-day festival with the children in the neighborhood.Mrs. Chilton read aloud these beautiful lines of Milton:—
Now the bright morning star, Day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and loads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail beauteous May that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire;
Woods and groves arc of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and with thee long.
"How beautiful!" said Frank and Harry. "Suppose, Mother," saidHarry, "it should rain, and hail, and snow to-morrow, for it lookslike it now, and then you know we cannot go into the woods andgather flowers; and all our plans will be spoiled." "Why, then, mydear, we must enjoy May morning as the great poet did, after he losthis sight, with our mind's eye; and you must bear yourdisappointment patiently." "Easier said than done, Mother," saidHarry. "Why, only think of all our preparations, and the beautifulwreath you made for Lizzy Evans, who is to be queen of the May, andhow pretty she would look in it, and then think of the dinner in thewoods, we all sitting round in a circle, and she and the king of theMay in the midst of us, and Ned Brown playing on his flageolet; andthen you know we are all to walk home in procession, and have adance at his mother's after tea." "You will not lose your dance,Harry," said his mother, "if it should hail, and rain, and snow;but, on the contrary, enjoy it all the more, for then you will riotbe fatigued by a long walk; and Lizzy can wear the wreath at anyrate." "I don't care for the fatigue, Mother; I want to be in thewoods and gather the flowers with my own hands, and smell them as Igather them in the fresh air, and hear the birds sing; and to screamas loud as I please, and kick up my heels, and not hear any one say,'Don't make such a noise, Harry.' I guess Milton did not take asmuch pleasure in writing poetry about the spring after he becameblind. But please read his May Song again, Mother." She read itagain.
"I think he must have felt as glad when he wrote it," said Harry,"as I hope to feel tomorrow.—'Comes dancing from the east'—howbeautiful it is! What a pity he ever lost his sight!" "Milton," saidthe mother, "made such a good use of his eyes while he could see,that he laid up stores of beautiful images, which he remembered whenhe could no longer use his bodily eyes. The poetry he wrote when hewas blind shows the most accurate observation of the outwardappearances of things, of shades of color, and of all those beautieswhich only sight could have taught him. It is worth while, boys, foryou to imitate him in this, while you admire his poetry."