The May-pole on these days is rarely seen to rise up in English towns with its proper floral decorations[056].  In remote rural districts a solitary May-pole is still, however, occasionally discovered.  “A May-pole,” says Washington Irving, “gave a glow to my feelings and spread a charm over the country for the rest of the day:  and as I traversed a part of the fair plains of Cheshire, and the beautiful borders of Wales and looked from among swelling hills down a long green valley, through which the Deva wound its wizard stream, my imagination turned all into a perfect Arcadia.  One can readily imagine what a gay scene old London must have been when the doors were decked with hawthorn; and Robin Hood, Friar Tuck, Maid Marian, Morris dancers, and all the other fantastic dancers and revellers were performing their antics about the May-pole in every part of the city.  I value every custom which tends to infuse poetical feeling into the common people, and to sweeten and soften the rudeness of rustic manners without destroying their simplicity.”

Another American writer—­a poet—­has expressed his due appreciation of the pleasures of the season.  He thus addresses the merrie month of MAY.[057]

MAY.

    Would that thou couldst laugh for aye,
    Merry, ever merry May! 
    Made of sun gleams, shade and showers
    Bursting buds, and breathing flowers,
    Dripping locked, and rosy vested,
    Violet slippered, rainbow crested;
    Girdled with the eglantine,
    Festooned with the dewy vine
    Merry, ever Merry May,
    Would that thou could laugh for aye!

W.D.  Gallagher.

I must give a dainty bit of description from the poet of the poets—­our own romantic Spenser.

      Then comes fair May, the fayrest mayde on ground,
      Decked with all dainties of the season’s pryde,
      And throwing flowres out of her lap around. 
      Upon two brethren’s shoulders she did ride,
      The twins of Leda, which, on eyther side,
      Supported her like to their Sovereign queene
      Lord! how all creatures laught when her they spide,
      And leapt and danced as they had ravisht beene! 
    And Cupid’s self about her fluttred all in greene.

Here are a few lines from Herrick.

    Fled are the frosts, and now the fields appeare
    Re-clothed in freshe and verdant diaper;
    Thawed are the snowes, and now the lusty spring
    Gives to each mead a neat enameling,
    The palmes[058] put forth their gemmes, and every tree
    Now swaggers in her leavy gallantry.

The Queen of May—­Lady Flora—­was the British representative of the Heathen Goddess Flora.  May still returns and ever will return at her proper season, with all her bright leaves and fragrant blossoms, but men cease to make the same use of them as of yore.  England is waxing utilitarian and prosaic.