'Tween the water and the land,
Tales his comrades understand.
Starry twins! your earliest ray
England's merry rustics hail,
Round the Maypole circling gay
In the primrose-scented vale.
Every cottage sends its pride,
Youth, or maid, or recent bride,
To the thronging village plain,
While the matron, mid her care,
In her daughter's beauty rare,
Lives her triumphs o'er again.
E'en that much-enduring race,*[1]
Who upon the darken'd face
Bear the symbol of their state,
Outcast and unfortunate,
Seem to hope and freedom born
On young May's propitious morn,
And throughout the toil-worn year,
Climbing high in chimney drear,
Guard the memory, sadly gay,
Of their lonely holyday.
Ancient Rome, with festive rite,
Hailed ye, glittering twins of light,
And the wreaths of Flora cast,
Where your blended footsteps past.
Classic Greece, with legends hoar,
Link'd her lineage to your lore,
- ↑ * The chimney-sweep boys, who in London have their holyday on the first of May.
