A Hymn on the Month of May with an attempt to illustrate some of the Beauties of the Creation

Of all the months within the year, None is so beautiful and fair, As the delightful month of May; Creation blooms so fine and gay, Like resurrection from the dead, The vegetation shews indeed: Observe the trees in robes of green, A beautiful and lovely scene; Their lovely bloom doth give us hope; Of a rich and plenteous crop.

Bright Phebus warms the chilled earth, Observe the beauties of new birth: Th' indulgent father of the day, His golden treasures doth display; When in the east he shews his light, Doth chase away the shades of night; His shining beauties are so clear, Makes all the stars to disappear; A thousand beauties all in one, Fall short in glory to the Sun. Gives light and heat to sea and land, By just degrees as they demand; The earth doth warm and makes her yield, The copious crops in the field; Vegetation without his ray, All soon would fade and die away; And animals of ev'ry kind, Must die, or else no comfort find. A pure celestial globe of fire, This charming beauty men admire; His golden splendors so refin'd, Excels all beauties of each kind. A million times the earth in size, Which fills our souls with great surprize: The learned sage doth so affirm; Those that reject, where is the harm: So admirable, I protest, In speculation I am lost. Pagans view the beautious orb— Think 'tis a god to be adored. The glorious orb of light behold, 'Tis like a polish'd globe of gold; All animals since time begun, Were nourish'd by the blessed Sun. The mute creation doth declare The joyful season of the year. (Works are more than words I believe, The very truth I will receive). The infect tribes are all alive, The useful bees swarm from their hive; Many that slept, quite silent by, Come forth, and in the air do fly, And months remained without food, Are rais'd to take of Nature's good. A new creation once a year, In flowers and herbs, doth still appear. The winter's cold, when pass'd away, Makes double welcome flow'ry May. The meadows green and strew'd with flow'rs. To entertain the rural hours; A carpet soft of velvet green; Oh! this delightful lovely scene. All Nature smiles with beauty bright, To please mankind and give delight. The country swains now leave their home To gather vi'lets in their bloom; The birds build nests, bring forth their young, The grove doth echo with their song; The ploughman whistles and doth sing, To welcome the delightful spring; Sweet Philomela day and night, Gives us pure songs with great delight; Like heaven's choir, with hymns of joy, Both day and night their time employ; Her tuneful throat no rest doth find, Instructed by the great Divine: This lovely bird, by heaven bless'd, I do admire above the rest. America hath not this kind, To entertain the human mind: 'Tis of Great Britain I do write, From thence I do my song indite; The very place where I was born, And soon do hope for to return: Altho' three thousand miles apart, I am at home in mind and heart. No country known throughout the earth, So fam'd for merchandize of worth; Rich manufactures of their own, Exceeds all nations, 'tis well known; In curious arts 'tis confess'd, They are the greatest and the best. Their var'ous numbers to recite, My time indeed would fail to write.

In summer season at day break, The feather'd choir sweet music make; Join in a body, take a flight, And bless the giver of day-light; A band of music in the air, Is charming to the human ear. Blackbird and thrush with songs refin'd, Sing to God's praise, and please mankind; And finches in their golden dress, With songs of praise themselves express; Linnets too their tribute bring, In honour of the heavenly King: Soon as awake their time employ, In singing of sweet hymns of joy; [Let wretched man blush for his shame, Soon as awake he doth blaspheme.] Each one his tuneful voice doth raise, And ushers in the day with praise. The lark mounts up unto the sky, Lost to the sight of human eye, Sweetly doth twiddle and doth sing, Keeps up her music on the wing; But quickly to the earth descends, To join her mate and other friends. The turtle and the cooing-dove, Join the sweet music of the grove, And all the lovely feather'd quire, My soul with pleasure doth admire; May I those pretty songsters join, To celebrate the hand divine. The cuckcoo sings three months, no more, Then drops her note, the season's o'er. Birds of passage such wisdom have, They cross with speed the briny wave, No compass want or any line, For to find out a warmer clime: Great is the wisdom they do share, They know the seasons of the year: God doth instruct and wisdom give, To find out summer where to live; The winter's cold they much do fear, They must have summer all the year. The turtle, swallow, and the crane, The scripture hath describ'd by name; From winter's cold away they fly, To southern climes, a warmer sky. The Lord instructs, doth wisdom give; In frost and snow they cannot live. Irrational creatures of each kind, Their end do answer God design'd.

The lordly cock will kindly treat, When finds a corn, calls to his mate, Take this corn my dear, as I live, When I find more, to thee I'll give. His words so soft and tender were, My soul delighted was to hear. He is a father very kind, And to his mate in love resign'd; And if disturbance doth take place, With haste doth run for to make peace; Nor mates, nor young, can't bear to see Either to fight or disagree. What I have seen I do indite, And put my thoughts in black and white. Observe this kingly bird, how kind, And good instruction you may find. CHRIST doth appoint the cock to crow, Then Peter weeps with bitter woe, Conviction now hath reach'd his heart, His conscience pierced with a dart; Oh! the sad moans and bitter cries, A flood of tears flow from his eyes. When men from death and sleep awake, Sad lamentation they do make. Observe how creatures Christ obey, Because he doth the sceptre sway: The fish to Christ must money bring, For to pay tribute to the king. The winged people of the air, Are join'd in pure love, pair and pair. Beasts of the earth, if I am right, The male and female ne'er will fight. Doth this not shame both man and wife, Who wrangle out a wretched life.

In London I have often seen May celebrated like a queen; A rich garland of silver plate, Their kind friends to congratulate, Perhaps a thousand pounds the piece, All very clean, elegant, and nice. Young men and maids dress'd fine and gay, In honour of the month of May; Decorated with May flowers, Gather'd from the neighbouring bow'rs. Jack in the green, doth dance and sing; The bells with music sweetly ring; The very sweeps with garlands crown'd, Do clatter music through the town. All Nature's chang'd, with beauties new, And to mankind their glories shew. I step away to neighb'ring fields, Admire the beauties nature yields; The very forests hath begun, To show its blossoms to the sun. Where e'er I walk or turn my eyes, New beauties to my sight arise; The pretty lambs do sport and run, And play their frolics in the sun: These dear creatures,—man clothe and feed And do supply our present need. Blessed are they who do behold, That Lamb the prophets have foretold. When grace from Christ, and peace are giv'n, On earth the man enjoys a heav'n.

The lilly and the rose most fair, Opens their beauties in the air, But soon do fade and die away, Like human life—short is their stay. Let blooming youth in time be wise, Observe how soon sweet flowers dies The rose of Sharon I admire, For 'tis a type of the Messiah; The passion flower in her dress, Excels in ev'ry loveliness, Some other flowers, I record, An emblem of the blessed Lord. The lily dress'd in rich array, Excels a king his nuptial day, And all the flow'ry lovely tribe, Excels the beauty of a bride. The corn in beauty fast doth spring, The vallies they do laugh and sing, Our kitchen gardens doth produce, The most healthful herbs, for our use; These pure plants for meat are given, By the indulgent hand of heaven. In ev'ry blade of grass that's green, The hand divine is clearly seen; God's works are perfect in their kind, In man's we no perfection find. The crocus first, we do behold, Clothed most rich, in robes of gold; And silver snow-drops do appear, Like to a virgin very fair: Then various species spring to view, Their numbers all I cannot shew; The yellow primrose we do find, Which shews a pow'r that is divine, And cowslips of various hue, New beauties open to our view. Their various numbers to detail. In very truth my time would fail. Various beauties do spring forth, From the rich surface of the earth; Numerous are the flow'ry trust, Some in fine powder richly dress'd; The painter can but imitate, These lovely flowers are complete. The air is soft, the sky serene, Our path is decked with velvet green, The meadows strewed with flowers are. Without the gard'ner's toil or care. Creation blooms, looks fine and gay, Oh! this delightful month of May. Grass, flowers, and trees of ev'ry kind, Shew forth to man the hand divine, And all the flow'ry, lovely tribe, Are dress'd in robes of harmless pride, And nourish'd by the heav'nly show'rs, Renews the beauties of the flow'rs; The whole creation doth declare The mighty God, whose works they are The thunders roar, and lightnings fly, And dart their vengeance from the sky; Ye rebels bold will you blaspheme This awful and tremendous name.

Let's imitate the bee and ant, And store up grace for future want; The useful bees are so discreet, Most worthy for to imitate: They gather the delicious juice, For their own food, and human use; In summer when the sun doth shine, Much to industry they incline. The little emmets do men teach, A silent sermon they do preach. Let sluggards learn for to be wise Go to the ant, I thee advise; Be active while the day is light, Complete your work before 'tis night: No post, so quick, so fast doth fly, As time doth pass, for you to die. Fly from sin, as the serpents sting, For that more bitter pain will bring, A wounded spirit, who can bear, The pains of hell and black despair. A dog that's mad man strives to shun, But to base vice makes haste to run. If in the town the plague's begun, The people to the country run; These life may end with bitter cries, But sin, the soul that never dies.

The summer advances after May, And man cuts grass, to dry for hay; The country lad and sprightly lass, Take forks to shake the tender grass, Then make it up in cocks of hay, And thus they spend the joyful day. The summer now is in its prime, And the warm days will soon decline; Then comes gold autumn with rich store, To feed the rich, likewise the poor; Fruit and corn of various kind, All given by the hand divine. Thus doth the seasons roll away; Here ends my song on flow'ry MAY.