 | The works of Washington Irving |  |
MAY-DAY.
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.
Actæon 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
aroused 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