THE SAINTS’ MAYING

Since green earth is awake

Let us now pastime take,

Not serving wantonness

Too well, nor niggardness,

Which monks of men would make.

But clothed like earth in green,

With jocund hearts and clean,

We will take hands and go

Singing where quietly blow

The flowers of Spring's demesne.

The cuckoo haileth loud

The open sky; no cloud

Doth fleck the earth's blue tent;

The land laughs, well content

To put off winter shroud.

Now, since‘ tis Easter Day,

All Christians may have play;

The young Saints, all agaze

For Christ in Heaven's maze,

May laugh who wont to pray.

Then welcome to our round

They light on homely ground:—

Agnes, Saint Cecily,

Agatha, Dorothy,

Margaret, Hildegonde;

Next come with Barbara

Lucy and Ursula;

And last, queen of the Nine,

Clear-eyed Saint Catherine

Joyful arrayeth her.

Then chooseth each her lad,

And after frolic had

Of dance and carolling

And playing in a ring,

Seek all the woodland shade.

And there for each his lass

Her man a nosegay has,

Which better than word spoken

Might stand to be her token

And emblem of her grace.

For Cecily, who bent

Her slim white neck and went

To Heaven a virgin still,

The nodding daffodil,

That bends but is not shent.

Lucy, whose wounded eyes

Opened in Heaven star-wise,

The lady-smock, whose light

Doth prank the grass with white,

Taketh for badge and prize.

Because for Lord Christ's hest

Men shore thy warm bright breast,

Agatha, see thy part

Showed in the burning heart

Of the white crocus best.

What fate was Barbara's

Shut in the tower of brass,

We figure and hold up

Within the stiff king-cup

That crowns the meadow grass.

Agnes, than whose King Death

Stayed no more delicate breath

On earth, we give for dower

Wood-sorrel, that frail flower

That Spring first quickeneth.

Dorothy, whose shrill voice

Bade Heathendom rejoice,

The sweet-breath'd cowslip hath;

And Margaret, who in death

Saw Heaven, her pearly choice.

Then she of virgin brood

Whom Prince of Britain woo'd,

Ursula, takes by favour

The hyacinth whose savour

Enskies the sunny wood.

Hildegonde, whose spirit high

The Cross did not deny,

Yet blusht to feel the shame,

Anemones must claim,

Whose roses early die.

Last, she who gave in pledge

Her neck to the wheel's edge,

Taketh the fresh primrose

Which ( even as she her foes )

Redeems the wintry hedge.

So garlanded, entwined,

Each as may prompt her mind,

The Saints renew for Earth

And Heaven such seemly mirth

As God once had design'd.

And when the day is done,

And veil'd the goodly Sun,

Each man his maid by right

Doth kiss and bid Good-night;

And home goes every one.

The maids to Heaven do hie

To serve God soberly;

The lads, their loves in Heaven,

What lowly work is given

They do, to win the sky.