THE EAST INDIAN.

Come, May, with all thy flowers,

Thy sweetly-scented thorn,

Thy cooling evening showers,

The fragrant breath at morn:

When, May-flies haunt the willow,

When May-buds tempt the bee,

Then o'er the shining billow

My love will come to me.

From Eastern Isles she's winging

Thro’ watery wilds her way,

And on her cheek is bringing

The bright sun's orient ray:

Oh, come and court her hither,

Ye breezes mild and warm —

One winter's gale would wither

So soft, so pure a form.

The fields where she was straying

Are blest with endless light,

With zephyrs always playing

Thro’ gardens always bright.

Then now, sweet May! be sweeter

Than e'er, thou'st been before;

Let sighs from roses meet her

When she comes near our shore.