From southern climes, O swiftly wing thy way
And pour thy symphonies in cadence sweet
Upon the air. ’Tis done, and at thy feet
Forget-me-nots soft nestle in the spray
Fresh scattered by the dew-drops in their play:
Ay, even over echo’s proud retreat,
Monadnoc, lies thy handiwork complete;
All hail thee, gentle queen,—benignant May!

May, brilliant May, with arbutus adorned;
Fairer than life itself when hope prevails;
Thy minstrels pipe in peace from yon blue pond,
Where water-lilies spread their airy sails,
And feathered songsters wake the wood beyond
With notes more ringing sweet than nightingale’s.

For what is England’s silver-throated bird
The heart of free America to thrill;
When robin’s merry strain, the lark’s wild trill,
Fall on the fainting faith like some fond word
From lips beloved, that other days have heard,—
Which spurred the lagging feet to climb the hill,
That ere the “sweet note” fell forgot their will
And marveled—what the feeble steps deterred.

Then, as on zephyr wing the summons came,
It cheered the soul triumphant on its way;
It fanned the “spark celestial” to a flame
Which shimmered through the night’s bewildered gray
To glow about the One All-Blessed Name,
And write in lines of gold: “Hail! Bonny May!”