of Merry
England and the wilder glee of this fresh forest, and then a dance, to
show the youthful pair what life is made of and how airily they should
go through it!--All ye that love the Maypole, lend your voices to the
nuptial song of the Lord and Lady of the May!"

This wedlock was more serious than most affairs of Merry Mount, where
jest and delusion, trick and fantasy, kept up a continual carnival.
The Lord and Lady of the May, though their titles must be laid down at
sunset, were really and truly to be partners for the dance of life,
beginning the measure that same bright eve. The wreath of roses that
hung from the lowest green bough of the Maypole had been twined for
them, and would be thrown over both their heads in symbol of their
flowery union. When the priest had spoken, therefore, a riotous uproar
burst from the rout of monstrous figures.

"Begin you the stave, reverend sir," cried they all, "and never did
the woods ring to such a merry peal as we of the Maypole shall send
up."

Immediately a prelude of pipe, cittern and viol, touched with
practised minstrelsy, began to play from a neighboring thicket in such
a mirthful cadence that the boughs of the Maypole quivered to the
sound. But the May-lord--he of the gilded staff--chancing to look into
his lady's eyes, was wonder-struck at the almost pensive glance that
met his own.

"Edith, sweet Lady of the May," whispered he, reproachfully, "is yon
wreath of roses a garland to hang above our graves that you look so
sad? Oh, Edith, this is our golden time. Tarnish it not by any pensive
shadow of the mind, for it may be that nothing of futurity will be
brighter than the mere remembrance of what is now passing."

"That was the very thought that saddened me. How came it in your mind
too?" said Edith, in a still lower tone than he; for it was high
treason to be sad at Merry Mount. "Therefore do I sigh amid this
festive music. And besides, dear Edgar, I struggle as with a dream,
and fancy that these shapes of our jovial friends are visionary and
their mirth unreal, and that we are no true lord and lady of the May.
What is the mystery in my heart?"

Just then, as if a spell had loosened them, down came a little shower
of withering rose-leaves from the Maypole. Alas for the young lovers!
No sooner had their hearts glowed with real passion than they were
sensible of something vague and unsubstantial in their former
pleasures, and felt a dreary presentiment of inev