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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/9043.txt b/9043.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..07864ed --- /dev/null +++ b/9043.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2135 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of May Day with the Muses, by Robert Bloomfield + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: May Day with the Muses + +Author: Robert Bloomfield + +Posting Date: October 15, 2012 [EBook #9043] +Release Date: October, 2005 +First Posted: September 1, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAY DAY WITH THE MUSES *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Charles Bidwell and Distributed +Proofreaders + + + + + + + + + + +MAYDAY WITH THE MUSES. + +BY +ROBERT BLOOMFIELD + +Author of the Farmer's Boy, Rural Tales, &c. + +LONDON: +Printed for the Author: and for Baldwin Chadock, and Joy + +1822 + +LONDON: + +Printed by Thomas Davison, Whitefriars. + + + + +PREFACE. + +I am of opinion that Prefaces are very useless things in cases like the +present, where the Author must talk of himself, with little amusement to +his readers. I have hesitated whether I should say any thing or nothing; +but as it is the fashion to say something, I suppose I must comply. I am +well aware that many readers will exclaim--"It is not the common practice +of English baronets to remit half a year's rent to their tenants for +poetry, or for any thing else." This may be very true; but I have found a +character in the Rambler, No. 82, who made a very different bargain, and +who says, "And as Alfred received the tribute of the Welsh in wolves' +heads, I allowed my tenants to pay their rents in butterflies, till I had +exhausted the papilionaceous tribe. I then directed them to the pursuit of +other animals, and obtained, by this easy method, most of the grubs and +insects which land, air, or water can supply.........I have, from my own +ground, the longest blade of grass upon record, and once accepted, as a +half year's rent for a field of wheat, an ear, containing more grains than +had been seen before upon a single stem." + +I hope my old Sir Ambrose stands in no need of defence from me or from any +one; a man has a right to do what he likes with his own estate. The +characters I have introduced as candidates may not come off so easily; a +cluster of poets is not likely to be found in one village, and the +following lines, written by my good friend T. Park. Esq. of Hampstead, are +not only true, but beautifully true, and I cannot omit them. + + +WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF THANET, + +August, 1790. + +The bard, who paints from rural plains, + Must oft himself the void supply +Of damsels pure and artless swains, + Of innocence and industry: + +For sad experience shows the heart + Of human beings much the same; +Or polish'd by insidious art, + Or rude as from the clod it came. + +And he who roams the village round, + Or strays amid the harvest sere, +Will hear, as now, too many a sound + Quiet would never wish to hear. + +The wrangling rustics' loud abuse, + The coarse, unfeeling, witless jest, +The threat obscene, the oath profuse, + And all that cultured minds detest. + +Hence let those Sylvan poets glean, + Who picture life without a flaw; +Nature may form a perfect scene, + But Fancy must the figures draw. + +The word "fancy" connects itself with my very childhood, fifty years back. +The fancy of those who wrote the songs which I was obliged to hear in +infancy was a very inanimate and sleepy fancy. I could enumerate a dozen +songs at least which all described sleeping shepherds and shepherdesses, +and, in one instance, where they both went to sleep: this is not fair +certainly; it is not even "watch and watch." + +"As Damon and Phillis were keeping of sheep, +Being free from all care they retired to sleep," &c. + +I must say, that if I understand any thing at all about keeping sheep, +this is not the way to go to work with them. But such characters and such +writings were fashionable, and fashion will beat common sense at any time. + +With all the beauty and spirit of Cunningham's "Kate of Aberdeen," and +some others, I never found any thing to strike my mind so forcibly as the +last stanza of Dibdin's "Sailor's Journal"-- + +"At length, 'twas in the month of May, + Our crew, it being lovely weather, +At three A.M. discovered day + And England's chalky cliffs together! +At seven, up channel how we bore, + Whilst hopes and fears rush'd o'er each fancy! +At twelve, I gaily jump'd on shore, + And to my throbbing heart press'd Nancy." + +This, to my feelings, is a balm at all times; it is spirit, animation, and +imagery, all at once. + +I will plead no excuses for any thing which the reader may find in this +little volume, but merely state, that I once met with a lady in London, +who, though otherwise of strong mind and good information, would maintain +that "it is impossible for a blind man to fall in love." I always thought +her wrong, and the present tale of "Alfred and Jennet" is written to +elucidate my side of the question. + +I have been reported to be dead; but I can assure the reader that this, +like many other reports, is not true. I have written these tales in +anxiety, and in a wretched state of health; and if these formidable foes +have not incapacitated me, but left me free to meet the public eye with +any degree of credit, that degree of credit I am sure I shall gain. + +I am, with remembrance of what is past, + +Most respectfully, + +ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. + + +_Shefford, Bedfordshire,_ + +_April 10th_, 1822. + + + + + MAY-DAY WITH THE MUSES. + + + +THE INVITATION + +O for the strength to paint my joy once more! +That joy I feel when Winter's reign is o'er; +When the dark despot lifts his hoary brow, +And seeks his polar-realm's eternal snow. +Though black November's fogs oppress my brain, +Shake every nerve, and struggling fancy chain; +Though time creeps o'er me with his palsied hand, +And frost-like bids the stream of passion stand, +And through his dry teeth sends a shivering blast, +And points to more than fifty winters past, +Why should I droop with heartless, aimless eye? +Friends start around, and all my phantoms fly, +And Hope, upsoaring with expanded wing, +Unfolds a scroll, inscribed "Remember Spring." +Stay, sweet enchantress, charmer of my days, +And glance thy rainbow colours o'er my lays; +Be to poor Giles what thou hast ever been, +His heart's warm solace and his sovereign queen; +Dance with his rustics when the laugh runs high, +Live in the lover's heart, the maiden's eye; +Still be propitious when his feet shall stray +Beneath the bursting hawthorn-buds of May; +Warm every thought, and brighten every hour, +And let him feel thy presence and thy power. + +SIR AMBROSE HIGHAM, in his eightieth year, +With memory unimpair'd, and conscience clear, +His English heart untrammell'd, and full blown +His senatorial honours and renown, +Now, basking in his plenitude of fame, +Resolved, in concert with his noble dame, +To drive to town no more--no more by night +To meet in crowded courts a blaze of light, +In streets a roaring mob with flags unfurl'd, +And all the senseless discord of the world,-- +But calmly wait the hour of his decay, +The broad bright sunset of his glorious day; +And where he first drew breath at last to fall, +Beneath the towering shades of Oakly Hall[A]. + +[Footnote A: The seat of Sir Ambrose is situated in the author's +imagination only; the reader must build Oakly Hall where he pleases.] + +Quick spread the news through hamlet, field, and farm, +The labourer wiped his brow and staid his arm; +'Twas news to him of more importance far +Than change of empires or the yells of war; +It breathed a hope which nothing could destroy, +Poor widows rose, and clapp'd their hands for joy, +Glad voices rang at every cottage door, +"Good old Sir Ambrose goes to town no more." +Well might the village bells the triumph sound, +Well might the voice of gladness ring around; +Where sickness raged, or want allied to shame, +Sure as the sun his well-timed succour came; +Food for the starving child, and warmth and wine +For age that totter'd in its last decline. +From him they shared the embers' social glow; +_He_ fed the flame that glanced along the snow, +When winter drove his storms across the sky, +And pierced the bones of shrinking poverty. + +Sir Ambrose loved the Muses, and would pay +Due honours even to the ploughman's lay; +Would cheer the feebler bard, and with the strong +Soar to the noblest energies of song; +Catch the rib-shaking laugh, or from his eye +Dash silently the tear of sympathy. +Happy old man!--with feelings such as these +The seasons all can charm, and trifles please; +And hence a sudden thought, a new-born whim, +Would shake his cup of pleasure to the brim, +Turn scoffs and doubts and obstacles aside, +And instant action follow like a tide. + +Time past, he had on his paternal ground +With pride the latent sparks of genius found +In many a local ballad, many a tale, +As wild and brief as cowslips in the dale, +Though unrecorded as the gleams of light +That vanish in the quietness of night +"Why not," he cried, as from his couch he rose, +"To cheer my age, and sweeten my repose, +"Why not be just and generous in time, +"And bid my tenants pay their rents in rhyme? +"For one half year they shall.--A feast shall bring +"A crowd of merry faces in the spring;-- +"Here, pens, boy, pens; I'll weigh the case no more, +"But write the summons:--go, go, shut the door. + +"'All ye on Oakly manor dwelling, +'Farming, labouring, buying, selling, +'Neighbours! banish gloomy looks, +'My grey old steward shuts his books. +'Let not a thought of winter's rent +'Destroy one evening's merriment; +'I ask not gold, but tribute found +'Abundant on Parnassian ground. +'Choose, ye who boast the gift, your themes +'Of joy or pathos, tales or dreams, +'Choose each a theme;--but, harkye, bring +'No stupid ghost, no vulgar thing; +'Fairies, indeed, may wind their way, +'And sparkle through the brightest lay: +'I love their pranks, their favourite green, +'And, could the little sprites be seen, +'Were I a king, I'd sport with them, +'And dance beneath my diadem. +'But surely fancy need not brood +'O'er midnight darkness, crimes, and blood, +'In magic cave or monk's retreat, +'Whilst the bright world is at her feet; +'Whilst to her boundless range is given, +'By night, by day, the lights of heaven, +'And all they shine upon; whilst Love +'Still reigns the monarch of the grove, +'And real life before her lies +'In all its thousand, thousand dies. +'Then bring me nature, bring me sense, +'And joy shall be your recompense: +'On Old May-day I hope to see +'All happy:--leave the rest to me. +'A general feast shall cheer us all +'Upon the lawn that fronts the hall, +'With tents for shelter, laurel boughs +'And wreaths of every flower that blows. +'The months are wending fast away; +'Farewell,--remember Old May-day.'" + +Surprise, and mirth, and gratitude, and jeers, +The clown's broad wonder, th' enthusiast's tears, +Fresh gleams of comfort on the brow of care, +The sectary's cold shrug, the miser's stare, +Were all excited, for the tidings flew +As quick as scandal the whole country through. +"Rent paid by rhymes at Oakly may be great, +"But rhymes for taxes would appal the state," +Exclaim'd th' exciseman,--"and then tithes, alas! +"Why there, again, 'twill never come to pass."-- +Thus all still ventured, as the whim inclined, +Remarks as various as the varying mind: +For here Sir Ambrose sent a challenge forth, +That claim'd a tribute due to sterling worth; +And all, whatever might their host regale, +Agreed to share the feast and drink his ale. + +Now shot through many a heart a secret fire, +A new born spirit, an intense desire +For once to catch a spark of local fame, +And bear a poet's honourable name! +Already some aloft began to soar, +And some to think who never thought before; +But O, what numbers all their strength applied, +Then threw despairingly the task aside +With feign'd contempt, and vow'd they'd never tried. +Did dairy-wife neglect to turn her cheese, +Or idling miller lose the favouring breeze; +Did the young ploughman o'er the furrows stand, +Or stalking sower swing an empty hand, +One common sentence on their heads would fall, +'Twas Oakly banquet had bewitch'd them all. +Loud roar'd the winds of March, with whirling snow, +One brightening hour an April breeze would blow; +Now hail, now hoar-frost bent the flow'ret's head, +Now struggling beams their languid influence shed, +That scarce a cowering bird yet dared to sing +'Midst the wild changes of our island spring. +Yet, shall the Italian goatherd boasting cry, +"Poor Albion! when hadst thou so clear a sky!" +And deem that nature smiles for him alone; +Her renovated beauties all his own? +No:--let our April showers by night descend, +Noon's genial warmth with twilight stillness blend; +The broad Atlantic pour her pregnant breath, +And rouse the vegetable world from death; +Our island spring is rapture's self to me, +All I have seen, and all I wish to see. + +Thus came the jovial day, no streaks of red +O'er the broad portal of the morn were spread, +But one high-sailing mist of dazzling white, +A screen of gossamer, a magic light, +Doom'd instantly, by simplest shepherd's ken, +To reign awhile, and be exhaled at ten. +O'er leaves, o'er blossoms, by his power restored, +Forth came the conquering sun and look'd abroad; +Millions of dew-drops fell, yet millions hung, +Like words of transport trembling on the tongue +Too strong for utt'rance:--Thus the infant boy, +With rosebud cheeks, and features tuned to joy, +Weeps while he struggles with restraint or pain, +But change the scene, and make him laugh again, +His heart rekindles, and his cheek appears +A thousand times more lovely through his tears. + +From the first glimpse of day a busy scene +Was that high swelling lawn, that destined green, +Which shadowless expanded far and wide, +The mansion's ornament, the hamlet's pride; +To cheer, to order, to direct, contrive, +Even old Sir Ambrose had been up at five; +There his whole household labour'd in his view,-- +But light is labour where the task is new. +Some wheel'd the turf to build a grassy throne +Round a huge thorn that spread his boughs alone, +Rough-rined and bold, as master of the place; +Five generations of the Higham race +Had pluck'd his flowers, and still he held his sway, +Waved his white head, and felt the breath of May. +Some from the green-house ranged exotics round, +To back in open day on English ground: +And 'midst them in a line of splendour drew +Long wreaths and garlands, gather'd in the dew. +Some spread the snowy canvas, propp'd on high +O'er shelter'd tables with their whole supply; +Some swung the biting scythe with merry face, +And cropp'd the daisies for a dancing space. +Some roll'd the mouldy barrel in his might, +From prison'd darkness into cheerful light, +And fenced him round with cans; and others bore +The creaking hamper with its costly store, +Well cork'd, well flavour'd, and well tax'd, that came +From Lusitanian mountains, dear to fame, +Whence GAMA steer'd, and led the conquering way +To eastern triumphs and the realms of day. +A thousand minor tasks fill'd every hour, +'Till the sun gain'd the zenith of his power, +When every path was throng'd with old and young, +And many a sky-lark in his strength upsprung +To bid them welcome.--Not a face was there +But for May-day at least had banish'd care; +No cringing looks, no pauper tales to tell, +No timid glance, they knew their host too well,-- +Freedom was there, and joy in every eye: +Such scenes were England's boast in days gone by. + +Beneath the thorn was good Sir Ambrose found, +His guests an ample crescent form'd around; +Nature's own carpet spread the space between, +Where blithe domestics plied in gold and green. +The venerable chaplain waved his wand, +And silence follow'd as he stretch'd his hand, +And with a trembling voice, and heart sincere, +Implored a blessing on th' abundant cheer. +Down sat the mingling throng, and shared a feast +With hearty welcomes given, by love increased; +A patriarch family, a close-link'd band, +True to their rural chieftain, heart and hand: +The deep carouse can never boast the bliss, +The animation of a scene like this. + +At length the damask cloths were whisk'd away, +Like fluttering sails upon a summer's day; +The hey-day of enjoyment found repose; +The worthy baronet majestic rose; +They view'd him, while his ale was filling round, +The monarch of his own paternal ground. +His cup was full, and where the blossoms bow'd +Over his head, Sir Ambrose spoke aloud, +Nor stopp'd a dainty form or phrase to cull-- +His heart elated, like his cup, was full:-- +"Full be your hopes, and rich the crops that fall; +"Health to my neighbours, happiness to all." +Dull must that clown be, dull as winter's sleet, +Who would not instantly be on his feet: +An echoing health to mingling shouts gave place, +"Sir Ambrose Higham, and his noble race." + +Avaunt, Formality! thou bloodless dame, +With dripping besom quenching nature's flame; +Thou cankerworm, who liv'st but to destroy, +And eat the very heart of social joy;-- +Thou freezing mist round intellectual mirth, +Thou spell-bound vagabond of spurious birth, +Away! away! and let the sun shine clear, +And all the kindnesses of life appear. + +With mild complacency, and smiling brow, +The host look'd round, and bade the goblets flow; +Yet curiously anxious to behold +Who first would pay in rhymes instead of gold; +Each eye inquiring through the ring was glanced +To see who dared the task, who first advanced; +That instant started Philip from the throng, +Philip, a farmer's son, well known for song,-- +And, as the mingling whispers round him ran, +He humbly bow'd, and timidly began:-- + + + + +THE DRUNKEN FATHER + +Poor Ellen married Andrew Hall, + Who dwells beside the moor, +Where yonder rose-tree shades the wall, + And woodbines grace the door. + +Who does not know how blest, how loved + Were her mild laughing eyes +By every youth!--but Andrew proved + Unworthy of his prize. + +In tippling was his whole delight, + Each sign-post barr'd his way; +He spent in muddy ale at night + The wages of the day. + +Though Ellen still had charms, was young, + And he in manhood's prime, +She sad beside her cradle sung, + And sigh'd away her time. + +One cold bleak night, the stars were hid, + In vain she wish'd him home; +Her children cried, half cheer'd, half chid, + "O when will father come!" + +'Till Caleb, nine years old, upsprung, + And kick'd his stool aside, +And younger Mary round him clung, + "I'll go, and you shall guide." + +The children knew each inch of ground, + Yet Ellen had her fears; +Light from the lantern glimmer'd round, + And show'd her falling tears. + +"Go by the mill and down the lane; + "Return the same way home: +"Perhaps you'll meet him, give him light; + "O how I _wish_ he'd come." + +Away they went, as close and true + As lovers in the shade, +And Caleb swung his father's staff + At every step he made. + +The noisy mill-clack rattled on, + They saw the water flow, +And leap in silvery foam along, + Deep murmuring below. + +"We'll soon be there," the hero said, + "Come on, 'tis but a mile,-- +"Here's where the cricket-match was play'd, + "And here's the shady stile. + +"How the light shines up every bough! + "How strange the leaves appear! +"Hark!--What was that?--'tis silent now, + "Come, Mary, never fear." + +The staring oxen breathed aloud, + But never dream'd of harm; +A meteor glanced along the cloud + That hung o'er Wood-Hill Farm. + +Old Caesar bark'd and howl'd hard by, + All else was still as death, +But Caleb was ashamed to cry, + And Mary held her breath. + +At length they spied a distant light, + And heard a chorus brawl; +Wherever drunkards stopp'd at night, + Why there was Andrew Hall. + +The house was full, the landlord gay, + The bar-maid shook her head, +And wish'd the boobies far away + That kept her out of bed. + +There Caleb enter'd, firm, but mild, + And spoke in plaintive tone:-- +"My mother could not leave the child, + "So we are come alone." + +E'en drunken Andrew felt the blow + That innocence can give, +When its resistless accents flow + To bid affection live. + +"I'm coming, loves, I'm coming now,"-- + Then, shuffling o'er the floor, +Contrived to make his balance true, + And led them from the door. + +The plain broad path that brought him there + By day, though faultless then, +Was up and down and narrow grown, + Though wide enough for ten. + +The stiles were wretchedly contrived, + The stars were all at play, +And many a ditch had moved itself + Exactly in his way. + +But still conceit was uppermost, + That stupid kind of pride:-- +"Dost think I cannot see a post? + "Dost think I want a guide? + +"Why, Mary, how you twist and twirl! + "Why dost not keep the track? +"I'll carry thee home safe, my girl,"-- + Then swung her on his back. + +Poor Caleb muster'd all his wits + To bear the light ahead, +As Andrew reel'd and stopp'd by fits, + Or ran with thund'ring tread. + +Exult, ye brutes, traduced and scorn'd, + Though true to nature's plan; +Exult, ye bristled, and ye horn'd, + When infants govern man. + +Down to the mill-pool's dangerous brink + The headlong party drove; +The boy alone had power to think, + While Mary scream'd above. + +"Stop!" Caleb cried, "you've lost the path; + "The water's close before; +"I see it shine, 'tis very deep,-- + "Why, don't you hear it roar?" + +And then in agony exclaim'd, + "O where's my mother _now_?" +The Solomon of hops and malt + Stopp'd short and made a bow: + +His head was loose, his neck disjointed, + It cost him little trouble; +But, to be stopp'd and disappointed, + Poh! danger was a bubble. + +Onward be stepp'd, the boy alert, + Calling his courage forth, +Hung like a log on Andrew's skirt, + And down he brought them both. + +The tumbling lantern reach'd the stream, + Its hissing light soon gone; +'Twas night, without a single gleam, + And terror reign'd alone. + +A general scream the miller heard, + Then rubb'd his eyes and ran, +And soon his welcome light appear'd, + As grumbling he began:-- + +"What have we here, and whereabouts? + "Why what a hideous squall! +"Some drunken fool! I thought as much-- + "'Tis only Andrew Hall! + +"Poor children!" tenderly he said, + "But now the danger's past." +They thank'd him for his light and aid, + And drew near home at last. + +But who upon the misty path + To meet them forward press'd? +'Twas Ellen, shivering, with a babe + Close folded to her breast. + +Said Andrew, "Now you're glad, I know, + "To se-se-see us come;-- +"But I have taken care of both, + "And brought them bo-bo-both safe home." + +With Andrew vex'd, of Mary proud, + But prouder of her boy, +She kiss'd them both, and sobb'd aloud,-- + The children cried for joy. + +But what a home at last they found! + Of comforts all bereft; +The fire out, the last candle gone, + And not one penny left! + +But Caleb quick as light'ning flew, + And raised a light instead; +And as the kindling brands he blew, + His father snored in bed. + +No brawling, boxing termagant + Was Ellen, though offended; +Who ever knew a fault like this + By violence amended? + +No:--she was mild as April morn, + And Andrew loved her too; +She rose at daybreak, though forlorn, + To try what love could do. + +And as her waking husband groan'd, + And roll'd his burning head, +She spoke with all the power of truth, + Down kneeling by his bed. + +"Dear Andrew, hear me,--though distress'd + "Almost too much to speak,-- +"This infant starves upon my breast-- + "To scold I am too weak. + +"I work, I spin, I toil all day, + "Then leave my work to cry, +"And start with horror when I think + "You wish to see me die. + +"But _do_ you wish it? can that bring + "More comfort, or more joy? +"Look round the house, how destitute! + "Look at your ragged boy! + +"That boy should make a father proud, + "If any feeling can; +"Then save your children, save your wife, + "Your honour as a man. + +"Hear me, for God's sake hear me now, + "And act a father's part!" +The culprit bless'd her angel tongue, + And clasp'd her to his heart; + +And would have vow'd, and would have sworn, + But Ellen kiss'd him dumb,-- +"Exert your mind, vow to _yourself_, + "And better days will come. + +"I shall be well when you are kind, + "And you'll be better too."-- +"I'll drink no more,"--he quick rejoin'd,-- + "Be't poison if I do." + +From that bright day his plants, his flowers, + His crops began to thrive, +And for three years has Andrew been + The soberest man alive. + +Soon as he ended, acclamations 'rose, +Endang'ring modesty and self-repose, +Till the good host his prudent counsel gave, +Then listen'd all, the flippant and the grave. +"Let not applauses vanity inspire, +"Deter humility, or damp desire; +"Neighbours we are, then let the stream run fair, +"And every couplet be as free as air; +"Be silent when each speaker claims his right, +"Enjoy the day as I enjoy the sight: +"They shall not class us with the knavish elves, +"Who banish shame, and criticise themselves." + +Thenceforward converse flow'd with perfect ease, +Midst country wit, and rustic repartees. +One drank to Ellen, if such might be found, +And archly glanced at female faces round. +If one with tilted can began to bawl, +Another cried, "Remember Andrew Hall." + +Then, multifarious topics, corn and hay, +Vestry intrigues, the rates they had to pay, +The thriving stock, the lands too wet, too dry, +And all that bears on fruitful husbandry, +Ran mingling through the crowd--a crowd that might, +Transferr'd to canvas, give the world delight; +A scene that WILKIE might have touch'd with pride-- +The May-day banquet then had never died. + +But who is he, uprisen, with eye so keen, +In garb of shining plush of grassy green-- +Dogs climbing round him, eager for the start, +With ceaseless tail, and doubly beating heart? +A stranger, who from distant forests came, +The sturdy keeper of the Oakly game. +Short prelude made, he pointed o'er the hill, +And raised a voice that every ear might fill; +His heart was in his theme, and in the forest still. + + + + +THE FORESTER. + +[Illustration.] + + +THE FORESTER. + +Born in a dark wood's lonely dell, + Where echoes roar'd, and tendrils curl'd +Round a low cot, like hermit's cell, + Old Salcey Forest was my world. +I felt no bonds, no shackles then, + For life in freedom was begun; +I gloried in th' exploits of men, + And learn'd to lift my father's gun. + +O what a joy it gave my heart! + Wild as a woodbine up I grew; +Soon in his feats I bore a part, + And counted all the game he slew. +I learn'd the wiles, the shifts, the calls, + The language of each living thing; +I mark'd the hawk that darting falls, + Or station'd spreads the trembling wing. + +I mark'd the owl that silent flits, + The hare that feeds at eventide, +The upright rabbit, when he sits + And mocks you, ere he deigns to hide. +I heard the fox bark through the night, + I saw the rooks depart at morn, +I saw the wild deer dancing light, + And heard the hunter's cheering horn. + +Mad with delight, I roam'd around + From morn to eve throughout the year, +But still, midst all I sought or found, + My favourites were the spotted deer. +The elegant, the branching brow, + The doe's clean limbs and eyes of love; +The fawn as white as mountain snow, + That glanced through fern and brier and grove. + +One dark, autumnal, stormy day, + The gale was up in all its might, +The roaring forest felt its sway, + And clouds were scudding quick as light: +A ruthless crash, a hollow groan, + Aroused each self-preserving start, +The kine in herds, the hare alone, + And shagged colts that grazed apart. + +Midst fears instinctive, wonder drew + The boldest forward, gathering strength +As darkness lour'd, and whirlwinds blew, + To where the ruin stretch'd his length. +The shadowing oak, the noblest stem + That graced the forest's ample bound, +Had cast to earth his diadem; + His fractured limbs had delved the ground. + +He lay, and still to fancy groan'd; + He lay like Alfred when he died-- +Alfred, a king by Heaven enthroned, + His age's wonder, England's pride! +Monarch of forests, great as good, + Wise as the sage,--thou heart of steel! +Thy name shall rouse the patriot's blood + As long as England's sons can feel. + +From every lawn, and copse, and glade, + The timid deer in squadrons came, +And circled round their fallen shade + With all of language but its name. +Astonishment and dread withheld + The fawn and doe of tender years, +But soon a triple circle swell'd, + With rattling horns and twinkling ears. + +Some in his root's deep cavern housed, + And seem'd to learn, and muse, and teach, +Or on his topmost foliage browsed, + That had for centuries mock'd their reach. +Winds in their wrath these limbs could crash, + This strength, this symmetry could mar; +A people's wrath can monarchs dash + From bigot throne or purple car. + +When Fate's dread bolt in Clermont's bowers + Provoked its million tears and sighs, +A nation wept its fallen flowers, + Its blighted hopes, its darling prize.-- +So mourn'd my antler'd friends awhile, + So dark, so dread, the fateful day; +So mourn'd the herd that knew no guile, + Then turn'd disconsolate away! + +Who then of language will be proud? + Who arrogate that gift of heaven? +To wild herds when they bellow loud, + To all the forest-tribes 'tis given. +I've heard a note from dale or hill + That lifted every head and eye; +I've heard a scream aloft, so shrill + That terror seized on all that fly. + +Empires may fall, and nations groan, + Pride be thrown down, and power decay; +Dark bigotry may rear her throne, + But science is the light of day. +Yet, while so low my lot is cast, + Through wilds and forests let me range; +My joys shall pomp and power outlast-- + The voice of nature cannot change. + + * * * * * + +A soberer feeling through the crowd he flung, +Clermont was uppermost on every tongue; +But who can live on unavailing sighs? +The inconsolable are not the wise. +Spirit, and youth, and worth, demand a tear-- +That day was past, and sorrow was not here; +Sorrow the contest dared not but refuse +'Gainst Oakly's open cellar and the muse. + +Sir Ambrose cast his eye along the line, +Where many a cheerful face began to shine, +And, fixing on his man, cried, loud and clear, +"What have you brought, John Armstrong? let us hear." +Forth stepp'd his shepherd;--scanty locks of grey +Edged round a hat that seem'd to mock decay; +Its loops, its bands, were from the purest fleece, +Spun on the hills in silence and in peace. +A staff he bore carved round with birds and flowers, +The hieroglyphics of his leisure hours; +And rough form'd animals of various name, +Not just like BEWICK'S, but they meant the same. +Nor these alone his whole attention drew, +He was a poet,--this Sir Ambrose knew,-- +A strange one too;--and now had penn'd a lay, +Harmless and wild, and fitting for the day. +No tragic tale on stilts;--his mind had more +Of boundless frolic than of serious lore;-- +Down went his hat, his shaggy friend close by +Dozed on the grass, yet watch'd his master's eye. + + + +THE SHEPHERD'S DREAM: + +OR, FAIRIES' MASQUERADE. + +[Illustration] + +THE SHEPHERD'S DREAM: OR, FAIRIES' MASQUERADE. + +I had folded my flock, and my heart was o'erflowing, +I loiter'd beside the small lake on the heath; +The red sun, though down, left his drapery glowing, +And no sound was stirring, I heard not a breath: +I sat on the turf, but I meant not to sleep, +And gazed o'er that lake which for ever is new, +Where clouds over clouds appear'd anxious to peep +From this bright double sky with its pearl and its blue. + +Forgetfulness, rather than slumber, it seem'd, +When in infinite thousands the fairies arose +All over the heath, and their tiny crests gleam'd +In mock'ry of soldiers, our friends and our foes. +There a stripling went forth, half a finger's length high, +And led a huge host to the north with a dash; +Silver birds upon poles went before their wild cry, +While the monarch look'd forward, adjusting his sash. + +Soon after a terrible bonfire was seen, +The dwellings of fairies went down in their ire, +But from all I remember, I never could glean +Why the woodstack was burnt, or who set it on fire. +The flames seem'd to rise o'er a deluge of snow, +That buried its thousands,--the rest ran away; +For the hero had here overstrain'd his long bow, +Yet he honestly own'd the mishap of the day. + +Then the fays of the north like a hailstorm came on, +And follow'd him down to the lake in a riot, +Where they found a large stone which they fix'd him upon, +And threaten'd, and coax'd him, and bade him be quiet. +He that couquer'd them all, was to conquer no more, +But the million beheld he could conquer alone; +After resting awhile, he leap'd boldly on shore, +When away ran a fay that had mounted his throne. + +'Twas pleasant to see how they stared, how they scamper'd, +By furze-bush, by fern, by no obstacle stay'd, +And the few that held council, were terribly hamper'd, +For some were vindictive, and some were afraid. +I saw they were dress'd for a masquerade train, +Colour'd rags upon sticks they all brandish'd in view, +And of such idle things they seem'd mightily vain, +Though they nothing display'd but a bird split in two. + +Then out rush'd the stripling in battle array, +And both sides determined to fight and to maul: +Death rattled his jawbones to see such a fray, +And glory personified laugh'd at them all. +Here he fail'd,--hence he fled, with a few for his sake, +And leap'd into a cockle-shell floating hard by; +It sail'd to an isle in the midst of the lake, +Where they mock'd fallen greatness, and left him to die. + +Meanwhile the north fairies stood round in a ring, +Supporting his rival on guns and on spears, +Who, though not a soldier, was robed like a king; +Yet some were exulting, and some were in tears. +A lily triumphantly floated above, +The crowd press'd, and wrangling was heard through the whole; +Some soldiers look'd surly, some citizens strove +To hoist the old nightcap on liberty's pole. + +But methought in my dream some bewail'd him that fell, +And liked not his victors so gallant, so clever, +Till a fairy stepp'd forward, and blew through a shell, +"Bear misfortune with firmness, you'll triumph for ever." +I woke at the sound, all in silence, alone, +The moor-hens were floating like specks on a glass, +The dun clouds were spreading, the vision was gone, +And my dog scamper'd round 'midst the dew on the grass. + +I took up my staff, as a knight would his lance, +And said, "Here 's my sceptre, my baton, my spear, +And there's my prime minister far in advance, +Who serves me with truth for his food by the year." +So I slept without care till the dawning of day, +Then trimm'd up my woodbines and whistled amain; +My minister heard as he bounded away, +And we led forth our sheep to their pastures again. + +Scorch'd by the shadeless sun on Indian plains, +Mellow'd by age, by wants, and toils, and pains, +Those toils still lengthen'd when he reach'd that shore +Where Spain's bright mountains heard the cannons roar, +A pension'd veteran, doom'd no more to roam, +With glowing heart thus sung the joys of home. + + + + +THE SOLDIER'S HOME. + +[Illustration.] + + +THE SOLDIER'S HOME. + +My untried muse shall no high tone assume, +Nor strut in arms;--farewell my cap and plume: +Brief be my verse, a task within my power, +I tell my feelings in one happy hour; +But what an hour was that! when from the main +I reach'd this lovely valley once again! +A glorious harvest fill'd my eager sight, +Half shock'd, half waving in a flood of light; +On that poor cottage roof where I was born +The sun look'd down as in life's early morn. +I gazed around, but not a soul appear'd, +I listen'd on the threshold, nothing heard; +I call'd my father thrice, but no one came; +It was not fear or grief that shook my frame, +But an o'erpowering sense of peace and home, +Of toils gone by, perhaps of joys to come. +The door invitingly stood open wide, +I shook my dust, and set my staff aside. +How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air, +And take possession of my father's chair! +Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame, +Appear'd the rough initials of my name, +Cut forty years before!--the same old clock +Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock +I never can forget. A short breeze sprung, +And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue, +Caught the old dangling almanacks behind, +And up they flew, like banners in the wind; +Then gently, singly, down, down, down, they went, +And told of twenty years that I had spent +Far from my native land:--that instant came +A robin on the threshold; though so tame, +At first he look'd distrustful, almost shy, +And cast on me his coal-black stedfast eye, +And seem'd to say (past friendship to renew) +"Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?" +Through the room ranged the imprison'd humble bee, +And bomb'd, and bounced, and straggled to be free, +Dashing against the panes with sullen roar, +That threw their diamond sunlight on the floor; +That floor, clean sanded, where my fancy stray'd +O'er undulating waves the broom had made, +Reminding me of those of hideous forms +That met us as we pass'd the _Cape of Storms_, +Where high and loud they break, and peace comes never; +They roll and foam, and roll and foam for ever. +But _here_ was peace, that peace which home can yield; +The grasshopper, the partridge in the field, +And ticking clock, were all at once become +The substitutes for clarion, fife, and drum. +While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still +On beds of moss that spread the window sill, +I deem'd no moss my eyes had ever seen +Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green, +And guess'd some infant hand had placed it there, +And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare. +Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose, +My heart felt every thing but calm repose; +I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years, +But rose at once, and bursted into tears; +Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again, +And thought upon the past with shame and pain; +I raved at war and all its horrid cost, +And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost. +On carnage, fire, and plunder, long I mused, +And cursed the murdering weapons I had used. + +Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard, +One bespoke age, and one a child's appear'd.-- +In stepp'd my father with convulsive start, +And in an instant clasp'd me to his heart. +Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid, +And, stooping to the child, the old man said, +"Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again, +This is your uncle Charles, come home from Spain." +The child approach'd, and with her fingers light, +Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight.-- +But why thus spin my tale, thus tedious be? +Happy old Soldier! what's the world to me? + + * * * * * + +Change is essential to the youthful heart, +It cannot bound, it cannot act its part +To one monotonous delight a slave; +E'en the proud poet's lines become its grave: +By innate buoyancy, by passion led, +It acts instinctively, it will be fed. + +A troop of country lasses paced the green, +Tired of their seats, and anxious to be seen; +They pass'd Sir Ambrose, turn'd, and pass'd again, +Some lightly tripp'd, to make their meaning plain: +The old man knew it well, the thoughts of youth +Came o'er his mind like consciousness of truth, +Or like a sunbeam through a lowering sky, +It gave him youth again, and ecstacy; +He joy'd to see them in this favourite spot, +Who of fourscore, or fifty score, would not? +He wink'd, he nodded, and then raised his hand,-- +'Twas seen and answer'd by the Oakly band. +Forth leap'd the light of heart and light of heel, +E'en stiff limb'd age the kindling joy could feel. +They form'd, while yet the music started light; +The grass beneath their feet was short and bright, +Where thirty couple danced with all their might. +The Forester caught lasses one by one, +And twirl'd his glossy green against the sun; +The Shepherd threw his doublet on the ground, +And clapp'd his hands, and many a partner found: +His hat-loops bursted in the jocund fray, +And floated o'er his head like blooming May. +Behind his heels his dog was barking loud, +And threading all the mazes of the crowd; +And had he boasted one had wagg'd his tail, +And plainly said, "What can my master ail?" +To which the Shepherd, had he been more cool, +Had only said, "'Tis Oakly feast, you fool." + +But where was Philip, he who danced so well? +Had he retired, had pleasure broke her spell? +No, he had yielded to a tend'rer bond, +He sat beside his own sick Rosamond, +Whose illness long deferr'd their wedding hour; +She wept, and seem'd a lily in a shower; +She wept to see him 'midst a crowd so gay, +For her sake lose the honours of the day. +But could a gentle youth be so unkind? +Would Philip dance, and leave his girl behind? +She in her bosom hid a written prize, +Inestimably rich in Philip's eyes; +The warm effusion of a heart that glow'd +With joy, with love, and hope by Heaven bestow'd. +He woo'd, he soothed, and every art assay'd, +To hush the scruples of the bashful maid, +Drawing, at length, against her weak command, +Reluctantly the treasure from her hand: +And would have read, but passion chain'd his tongue, +He turn'd aside, and down the ballad flung; +And paused so long from feeling and from shame, +That old Sir Ambrose halloo'd him by name: +"Bring it to me, my lad, and never fear, +"I never blamed true love, or scorn'd a tear; +"They well become us, e'en where branded most." +He came, and made a proxy of his host, +Who, as the dancers cooling join'd the throng, +Eyed the fair writer as he read her song. + + + + +ROSAMOND'S SONG OF HOPE. + + +Sweet Hope, so oft my childhood's friend, + I will believe thee still, +For thou canst joy with sorrow blend, + Where grief alone would kill. + +When disappointments wrung my heart, + Ill brook'd in tender years, +Thou, like a sun, perform'dst thy part, + And dried my infant tears. + +When late I wore the bloom of health, + And love had bound me fast, +My buoyant heart would sigh by stealth + For fear it might not last. + +My sickness came, my bloom decay'd, + But Philip still was by; +And thou, sweet Hope, so kindly said, + "He'll weep if thou should'st die." + +Thou told'st me too, that genial Spring + Would bring me health again; +I feel its power, but cannot sing + Its glories yet for pain. + +But thou canst still my heart inspire, + And Heaven can strength renew; +I feel thy presence, holy fire! + My Philip will be true. + + * * * * * + +All eyes were turn'd, all hearts with pity glow'd, +The maid stood trembling, and the lover bow'd +As rose around them, while she dried her tears, +"Long life to Rosamond, and happy years!" + +Scarce had the voices ceased, when forth there came +Another candidate for village fame: +By gratitude to Heaven, by honest pride, +Impell'd to rise and cast his doubts aside, +A sturdy yeoman, button'd to the throat, +Faced the whole ring, and shook his leathern coat. +"I have a tale of private life to tell, +"'Tis all of self and home, I know it well; +"In love and honour's cause I would be strong, +"Mine is a father's tale, perhaps too long, +"For fathers, when a duteous child's the theme, +"Can talk a summer's sun down, and then dream +"Of retrospective joys with hearts that glow +"With feelings such as parents only know." + + + + +ALFRED AND JENNET. + +Yes, let me tell of Jennet, my last child; +In her the charms of all the rest ran wild, +And sprouted as they pleased. Still by my side, +I own she was my favourite, was my pride, +Since first she labour'd round my neck to twine, +Or clasp'd both little hands in one of mine: +And when the season broke, I've seen her bring +Lapfuls of flowers, and then the girl would sing +Whole songs, and halves, and bits, O, with such glee! +If playmates found a favourite, it was she. +Her lively spirit lifted her to joy; +To distance in the race a clumsy boy +Would raise the flush of conquest in her eye, +And all was dance, and laugh, and liberty. +Yet not hard-hearted, take me right, I beg, +The veriest romp that ever wagg'd a leg +Was Jennet; but when pity soothed her mind, +Prompt with her tears, and delicately kind. +The half-fledged nestling, rabbit, mouse, or dove, +By turns engaged her cares and infant love; +And many a one, at the last doubtful strife, +Warm'd in her bosom, started into life. + +At thirteen she was all that Heaven could send, +My nurse, my faithful clerk, my lively friend; +Last at my pillow when I sunk to sleep, +First on my threshold soon as day could peep: +I heard her happy to her heart's desire, +With clanking pattens, and a roaring fire. + +Then, having store of new-laid eggs to spare, +She fill'd her basket with the simple fare, +And weekly trudged (I think I see her still) +To sell them at yon house upon the hill. +Oft have I watch'd her as she stroll'd along, +Heard the gate bang, and heard her morning song; +And, as my warm ungovern'd feelings rose, +Said to myself, "Heaven bless her! there she goes." +Long would she tarry, and then dancing home, +Tell how the lady bade her oft'ner come, +And bade her talk and laugh without control; +For Jennet's voice was music to the soul, +My tale shall prove it:--For there dwelt a son, +An only child, and where there is but one, +Indulgence like a mildew reigns, from whence +Mischief may follow if that child wants sense. +But Alfred was a youth of noble mind, +With ardent passions, and with taste refined; +All that could please still courted heart and hand, +Music, joy, peace, and wealth, at his command; +Wealth, which his widow'd mother deem'd his own; +Except the poor, she lived for him alone. +Yet would she weep by stealth when he was near, +But check'd all sighs to spare his wounded ear; +For from his cradle he had never seen +Soul-cheering sunbeams, or wild nature's green. +But all life's blessings centre not in sight; +For Providence, that dealt him one long night, +Had given, in pity to the blooming boy, +Feelings more exquisitely tuned to joy. +Fond to excess was he of all that grew; +The morning blossom sprinkled o'er with dew, +Across his path, as if in playful freak, +Would dash his brow, and weep upon his cheek; +Each varying leaf that brush'd where'er he came, +Press'd to his rosy lip he call'd by name; +He grasp'd the saplings, measured every bough, +Inhaled the fragrance that the spring months throw +Profusely round, till his young heart confess'd +That all was beauty, and himself was bless'd. +Yet when he traced the wide extended plain, +Or clear brook side, he felt a transient pain; +The keen regret of goodness, void of pride, +To think he could not roam without a guide. + +Who, guess ye, knew these scenes of home delight +Better than Jennet, bless'd with health and sight? +Whene'er she came, he from his sports would slide, +And catch her wild laugh, listening by her side; +Mount to the tell-tale clock with ardent spring, +And _feel_ the passing hour, then fondly cling +To Jennet's arm, and tell how sweet the breath +Of bright May-mornings on the open heath; +Then off they started, rambling far and wide, +Like Cupid with a wood-nymph by his side. + +Thus months and months roll'd on, the summer pass'd, +And the long darkness, and the winter blast, +Sever'd the pair; no flowery fields to roam, +Poor Alfred sought his music and his home. +What wonder then if inwardly he pined? +The anxious mother mark'd her stripling's mind +Gloomy and sad, yet striving to be gay +As the long tedious evenings pass'd away: +'Twas her delight fresh spirits to supply.-- +My girl was sent for--just for company. + +A tender governess my daughter found, +Her temper placid, her instruction sound; +Plain were her precepts, full of strength, their power +Was founded on the practice of the hour: +Theirs were the happy nights to peace resign'd, +With ample means to cheer th' unbended mind. +The Sacred History, or the volumes fraught +With tenderest sympathy, or towering thought, +The laughter-stirring tale, the moral lay, +All that brings dawning reason into day. +There Jennet learn'd by maps, through every land +To travel, and to name them at command; +Would tell how great their strength, their bounds how far, +And show where uncle Charles was in the war. +The globe she managed with a timid hand, +Told which was ocean, which was solid land, +And said, whate'er their diff'rent climates bore, +All still roll'd round, though that I knew before. + +Thus grown familiar, and at perfect ease, +What could be Jennet's duty but to please? +Yet hitherto she kept, scarce knowing why, +One powerful charm reserved, and still was shy. +When Alfred from his grand-piano drew +Those heavenly sounds that seem'd for ever new, +She sat as if to sing would be a crime, +And only gazed with joy, and nodded time. +Till one snug evening, I myself was there, +The whispering lad inquired, behind my chair, +"Bowman, can Jennet sing?" "At home," said I, +"She sings from morn till night, and seems to fly +"From tune to tune, the sad, the wild, the merry, +"And moulds her lip to suit them like a cherry; +"She learn'd them here."--"O ho!" said he, "O ho!" +And rubb'd his hands, and stroked his forehead, so. +Then down he sat, sought out a tender strain, +Sung the first words, then struck the chords again; +"Come, Jennet, help me, you _must_ know this song +"Which I have sung, and you have heard so long." +I mark'd the palpitation of her heart, +Yet she complied, and strove to take a part, +But faint and fluttering, swelling by degrees, +Ere self-composure gave that perfect ease, +The soul of song:--then, with triumphant glee, +Resting her idle work upon her knee, +Her little tongue soon fill'd the room around +With such a voluble and magic sound, +That, 'spite of all her pains to persevere, +She stopp'd to sigh, and wipe a starting tear; +Then roused herself for faults to make amends. +While Alfred trembled to his fingers' ends. + +But when this storm of feeling sunk to rest, +Jennet, resuming, sung her very best, +And on the ear, with many a dying fall, +She pour'd th' enchanting "Harp of Tara's Hall." +Still Alfred hid his raptures from her view, +Still touch'd the keys, those raptures to renew, +And led her on to that sweet past'ral air, +The Highland Laddie with the yellow hair. +She caught the sound, and with the utmost ease +Bade nature's music triumph, sure to please: +Such truth, such warmth, such tenderness express'd, +That my old heart was dancing in my breast. +Upsprung the youth, "O Jennet, where's your hand? +"There's not another girl in all the land, +"If she could bring me empires, bring me sight, +"Could give me such unspeakable delight: +"You little baggage! not to tell before +"That you could sing; mind--you go home no more." + +Thus I have seen her from my own fire-side +Attain the utmost summit of her pride; +For, from that singing hour, as time roll'd round, +At the great house my Jennet might be found, +And, while I watch'd her progress with delight, +She had a father's blessing every night, +And grew in knowledge at that moral school +Till I began to guess myself a fool. +Music! why she could play as well as he! +At least I thought so,--but we'll let that be: +She read the poets, grave and light, by turns, +And talk'd of Cowper's "Task," and Robin Burns; +Nay, read without a book, as I may say, +As much as some could with in half a day. +'Twas thus I found they pass'd their happy time, +In all their walks, when nature in her prime +Spread forth her scents and hues, and whisper'd love +And joy to every bird in every grove; +And though their colours could not meet his eye, +She pluck'd him flowers, then talk'd of poetry. + +Once on a sunbright morning, 'twas in June, +I felt my spirits and my hopes in tune, +And idly rambled forth, as if t' explore +The little valley just before my door; +Down by yon dark green oak I found a seat +Beneath the clustering thorns, a snug retreat +For poets, as I deem'd, who often prize +Such holes and corners far from human eyes; +I mark'd young Alfred, led by Jennet, stray +Just to the spot, both chatting on their way: +They came behind me, I was still unseen; +He was the elder, Jennet was sixteen. +My heart misgave me, lest I should be deem'd +A prying listener, never much esteem'd, +But this fear soon subsided, and I said, +"I'll hear this blind lad and my little maid." +That instant down she pluck'd a woodbine wreath, +The loose leaves rattled on my head beneath; +This was for Alfred, which he seized with joy, +"O, thank you, Jennet," said the generous boy. +Much was their talk, which many a theme supplied, +As down they sat, for every blade was dried. + +I would have skulk'd away, but dare not move, +"Besides," thought I, "they will not talk of love;" +But I was wrong, for Alfred, with a sigh, +A little tremulous, a little shy, +But, with the tenderest accents, ask'd his guide +A question which might touch both love and pride. +"This morning, Jennet, why did you delay, +"And talk to that strange clown upon your way, +"Our homespun gardener? how can you bear +"His screech-owl tones upon your perfect ear? +"I cannot like that man, yet know not why, +"He's surely quite as old again as I; +"He's ignorant, and cannot be your choice, +"And ugly too, I'm certain, by his voice, +"Besides, he call'd you pretty."--"Well, what then? +"I cannot hide my face from all the men; +"Alfred, indeed, indeed, you are deceived, +"He never spoke a word that I believed; +"Nay, can he think that I would leave a home +"Full of enjoyment, present, and to come, +"While your dear mother's favours daily prove +"How sweet the bonds of gratitude and love? +"No, while beneath her roof I shall remain, +"I'll never vex you, never give you pain." +"Enough, my life," he cried, and up they sprung; +By Heaven, I almost wish'd that I was young; +It was a dainty sight to see them pass, +Light as the July fawns upon the grass, +Pure as the breath of spring when forth it spreads, +Love in their hearts, and sunshine on their heads. + +Next day I felt what I was bound to do, +To weigh the adventure well, and tell it too; +For Alfred's mother must not be beguiled, +He was her earthly hope, her only child; +I had no wish, no right to pass it by, +It might bring grief, perhaps calamity. +She was the judge, and she alone should know +Whether to check the flame or let it grow. +I went with fluttering heart, and moisten'd eye, +But strong in truth, and arm'd for her reply. + +"Well, master Bowman, why that serious face?" +Exclaim'd the lovely dame, with such a grace, +That had I knelt before her, I had been +Not quite the simplest votary ever seen. +I told my tale, and urged that well-known truth, +That the soft passion in the bloom of youth +Starts into power, and leads th' unconscious heart +A chase where reason takes but little part; +Nothing was more in nature, or more pure, +And from their habits nothing was more sure. +Whether the lady blush'd from pride or joy, +I could but guess;--at length she said--"My boy +Dropp'd not a syllable of this to me! +What was I doing, that I could not see? +Through all the anxious hours that I have known, +His welfare still was dearer than my own; +How have I mourn'd o'er his unhappy fate! +Blind as he is! the heir to my estate! +I now might break his heart, and Jennet's too; +What must I, Bowman, or what can I do?"-- +"Do, madam?" said I, boldly, "if you trace +"Impending degradation or disgrace +"In this attachment, let us not delay; +"Send my girl home, and check it while you may." +"I will," she said, but the next moment sigh'd; +Parental love was struggling hard with pride. + +I left her thus, deep musing, and soon found +My daughter, for I traced her by the sound +Of Alfred's flageolet; no cares had they, +But in the garden bower spent half the day. +By starts he sung, then wildest trillings made, +To mock a piping blackbird in the glade. +I turn'd a corner and approach'd the pair; +My little rogue had roses in her hair! +She whipp'd them out, and with a downcast look, +Conquer'd a laugh by poring on her book. +My object was to talk with her aside, +But at the sight my resolution died; +They look'd so happy in their blameless glee, +That, as I found them, I e'en let them be; +Though Jennet promised a few social hours +'Midst her old friends, my poultry, and my flowers. +She came,--but not till fatal news had wrung +Her heart through sleepless hours, and chain'd her tongue. +She came, but with a look that gave me pain, +For, though bright sunbeams sparkled after rain, +Though every brood came round, half run, half fly, +I knew her anguish by her alter'd eye; +And strove, with all my power, where'er she came, +To soothe her grief, yet gave it not a name. +At length a few sad bitter tears she shed. +And on both hands reclined her aching head. +'Twas then my time the conqueror to prove, +I summon'd all my rhetoric, all my love. +"Jennet, you must not think to pass through life +"Without its sorrows, and without its strife; +"Good, dutiful, and worthy, as you are, +"You must have griefs, and you must learn to bear." +Thus I went on, trite moral truths to string,-- +All chaff, mere chaff, where love has spread his wing: +She cared not, listen'd not, nor seem'd to know +What was my aim, but wiped her burning brow, +Where sat more eloquence and living power +Than language could embody in an hour. +With soften'd tone I mention'd Alfred's name, +His wealth, our poverty, and that sad blame +Which would have weigh'd me down, had I not told +The secret which I dare not keep for gold, +Of Alfred's love, o'erheard the other morn. +The gardener, and the woodbine, and the thorn; +And added, "Though the lady sends you home, +"You are but young, child, and a day may come"-- +"She has _not_ sent me home," the girl replied, +And rose with sobs of passion from my side; +"She has _not_ sent me home, dear father, no; +"She gives me leave to tarry or to go; +"She has not _blamed_ me,--yet she weeps no less, +"And every tear but adds to my distress; +"I am the cause,--thus all that she has done +"Will bring the death or misery of her son. +"Jealous he might be, could he but have seen +"How other lads approach'd where I have been; +"But this man's voice offends his very soul, +"That strange antipathy brooks no control; +"And should I leave him now, or seem unkind, +"The thought would surely wreck his noble mind; +"To leave him thus, and in his utmost need! +"Poor Alfred! then you will be blind indeed! +"I will not leave him."--"Nay, child, do not rave, +"What, would you be his menial, be his slave?" +"Yes," she exclaim'd, and wiped each streaming eye, +"Yes, be his slave, and serve him till I die; +"He is too just to act the tyrant's part, +"He's truth itself." O how my burthen'd heart +Sigh'd for relief!--soon that relief was found; +Without one word we traced the meadow round, +Her feverish hand in mine, and weigh'd the case, +Nor dared to look each other in the face; +Till, with a sudden stop, as if from fear, +I roused her sinking spirit, "Who comes here?" + +Down the green slope before us, glowing warm, +Came Alfred, tugging at his mother's arm; +Willing she seem'd, but he still led the way, +She had not walk'd so fast for many a day; +His hand was lifted, and his brow was bare, +For now no clust'ring ringlets wanton'd there, +He threw them back in anger and in spleen, +And shouted "Jennet" o'er the daisied green. +Boyish impatience strove with manly grace +In ev'ry line and feature of his face; +His claim appear'd resistless as his choice, +And when he caught the sound of Jennet's voice, +And when with spotless soul he clasp'd the maid, +My heart exulted while my breath was staid. +"Jennet, we must not part! return again; +"What have I done to merit all this pain? +"Dear mother, share my fortune with the poor, +"Jennet is mine, and _shall_ be--say no more; +"Bowman, you know not what a friend I'll be; +"Give me your daughter, Bowman, give her me; +"Jennet, what will my days be if you go? +"A dreary darkness, and a life of woe: +"My dearest love, come _home_, and do not cry; +"You are my daylight, Jennet, I shall die." + +To such appeals all prompt replies are cold, +And stately prudence snaps her cobweb hold. +Had the good widow tried, or wish'd to speak, +This was a bond she could not, dared not break; +Their hearts (you never saw their likeness, never) +Were join'd, indissolubly join'd for ever. +Why need I tell how soon our tears were dried. +How Jennet blush'd, how Alfred with a stride +Bore off his prize, and fancied every charm, +And clipp'd against his ribs her trembling arm; +How mute we seniors stood, our power all gone? +Completely conquer'd, Love the day had won, +And the young vagrant triumph'd in our plight, +And shook his roguish plumes, and laugh'd outright. +Yet, by my life and hopes, I would not part +With this sweet recollection from my heart; +I would not now forget that tender scene +To wear a crown, or make my girl a queen. +Why need be told how pass'd the months along, +How sped the summer's walk, the winter's song, +How the foil'd suitor all his hopes gave up, +How Providence with rapture fill'd their cup? +No dark regrets, no tragic scenes to prove, +The gardener was too old to die for love. +A thousand incidents I cast aside +To tell but one--I gave away the bride-- +Gave the dear youth what kings could not have given; +Then bless'd them both, and put my trust in Heaven. +There the old neighbours laugh'd the night away, +Who talk of Jennet's wedding to this day. +And could you but have seen the modest grace, +The half-hid smiles that play'd in Jennet's face, +Or mark'd the bridegroom's bounding heart o'erflow, +You might have wept for joy, as I could now: +I speak from memory of days long past; +Though 'tis a father's tale, I've done at last. + + * * * * * + +Here rest thee, rest thee, Muse, review the scene +Where thou with me from peep of dawn hast been: +We did not promise that this motley throng +Should every _one_ supply a votive song; +Nor every tenant:--yet thou hast been kind, +For untold tales must still remain behind, +Which might o'er listening patience still prevail. +Did fancy waver not, nor daylight fail. +"The Soldier's Wife," her toils, his battles o'er, +"Love in a Shower," the riv'let's sudden roar; +Then, "Lines to Aggravation" form the close, +Parent of murders, and the worst of woes. +But while the changeful hours of daylight flew, +Some homeward look'd, and talk'd of evening dew; +Some watch'd the sun's decline, and stroll'd around, +Some wish'd another dance, and partners found; +When in an instant every eye was drawn +To one bright object on the upper lawn; +A fair procession from the mansion came, +Unknown its purport, and unknown its aim. +No gazer could refrain, no tongue could cease, +It seem'd an embassy of love and peace. +Nearer and nearer still approach'd the train, +Age in the van transform'd to youth again. +Sir Ambrose gazed, and scarce believed his eyes; +'Twas magic, memory, love, and blank surprise, +For there his venerable lady wore +The very dress which, sixty years before, +Had sparkled on her sunshine bridal morn, +Had sparkled, ay, beneath this very thorn! +Her hair was snowy white, o'er which was seen, +Emblem of what her bridal cheeks had been, +A twin red rose--no other ornament +Had pride suggested, or false feeling lent; +She came to grace the triumph of her lord, +And pay him honours at his festive board. + +Nine ruddy lasses follow'd where she stepp'd; +White were their virgin robes, that lightly swept +The downy grass; in every laughing eye +Cupid had skulk'd, and written "victory." +What heart on earth its homage could refuse? +Each tripp'd, unconsciously, a blushing Muse. +A slender chaplet of fresh blossoms bound +Their clustering ringlets in a magic round. +And, as they slowly moved across the green, +Each in her beauty seem'd a May-day queen. +The first a wreath bore in her outstretch'd hand, +The rest a single rose upon a wand; +Their steps were measured to that grassy throne +Where, watching them, Sir Ambrose sat alone. +They stopp'd,--when she, the foremost of the row, +Curtsied, and placed the wreath upon his brow; +The rest, in order pacing by his bower, +In the loop'd wreath left each her single flower,-- +Then stood aside.--What broke the scene's repose? +The whole assembly clapp'd their hands and rose. + +The Muses charm'd them as they form'd a ring, +And look'd the very life and soul of Spring! +But still the white hair'd dame they view'd with pride, +Her love so perfect, and her truth so tried. +Oh, sweet it is to hear, to see, to name, +Unquench'd affection in the palsied frame-- +To think upon the boundless raptures past, +And love, triumphant, conquering to the last! + +Silenced by feeling, vanquish'd by his tears, +The host sprung up, nor felt the weight of years; +Yet utterance found not, though in virtue's cause, +But acclamations fill'd up nature's pause, +Till, by one last and vigorous essay, +His tide of feeling roll'd itself away; +The language of delight its bondage broke, +And many a warm heart bless'd him as he spoke. + +"Neighbours and friends, by long experience proved, +"Pardon this weakness; I was too much moved: +"My dame, you see, can youth and age insnare, +"In vain I strove, 'twas more than I could bear,-- +"Yet hear me,--though the tyrant passions strive, +"The words of truth, like leading stars, survive; +"I thank you all, but will accomplish more-- +"Your verses shall not die as heretofore; +"Your local tales shall not be thrown away, +"Nor war remain the theme of every lay. +"Ours is an humbler task, that may release +"The high-wrought soul, and mould it into peace. +"These pastoral notes some victor's ear may fill, +"Breathed amidst blossoms, where the drum is still: +"I purpose then to send them forth to try +"The public patience, or its apathy. +"The world shall see them; why should I refrain? +"'Tis all the produce of my own domain. +"Farewell!" he said, then took his lady's arm, +On his shrunk hand her starting tears fell warm; +Again he turn'd to view the happy crowd, +And cried, "Good night, good night, good night," aloud, +"Health to you all! for see, the evening closes," +Then march'd to rest, beneath his crown of roses. +"Happy old man! with feelings such as these, +"The seasons all can charm, and trifles please." +An instantaneous shout re-echoed round, +'Twas wine and gratitude inspired the sound: +Some joyous souls resumed the dance again, +The aged loiter'd o'er the homeward plain, +And scatter'd lovers rambled through the park, +And breathed their vows of honour in the dark; +Others a festal harmony preferr'd, +Still round the thorn the jovial song was heard; +Dance, rhymes, and fame, they scorn'd such things as these, +But drain'd the mouldy barrel to its lees, +As if 'twere worse than shame to want repose: +Nor was the lawn clear till the moon arose, +And on each turret pour'd a brilliant gleam +Of modest light, that trembled on the stream; +The owl awoke, but dared not yet complain, +And banish'd silence re-assumed her reign. + + +THE END. + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's May Day with the Muses, by Robert Bloomfield + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAY DAY WITH THE MUSES *** + +***** This file should be named 9043.txt or 9043.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/0/4/9043/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Charles Bidwell and Distributed +Proofreaders + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: May Day With The Muses + +Author: Robert Bloomfield + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9043] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on September 1, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAY DAY WITH THE MUSES *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Charles Bidwell and Distributed Proofreaders + + + + +MAYDAY WITH THE MUSES. + +BY +ROBERT BLOOMFIELD + +Author of the Farmer's Boy, Rural Tales, &c. + +LONDON: +Printed for the Author: and for Baldwin Chadock, and Joy + +1822 + +LONDON: + +Printed by Thomas Davison, Whitefriars. + + + + +PREFACE. + +I am of opinion that Prefaces are very useless things in cases like the +present, where the Author must talk of himself, with little amusement to +his readers. I have hesitated whether I should say any thing or nothing; +but as it is the fashion to say something, I suppose I must comply. I am +well aware that many readers will exclaim--"It is not the common practice +of English baronets to remit half a year's rent to their tenants for +poetry, or for any thing else." This may be very true; but I have found a +character in the Rambler, No. 82, who made a very different bargain, and +who says, "And as Alfred received the tribute of the Welsh in wolves' +heads, I allowed my tenants to pay their rents in butterflies, till I had +exhausted the papilionaceous tribe. I then directed them to the pursuit of +other animals, and obtained, by this easy method, most of the grubs and +insects which land, air, or water can supply.........I have, from my own +ground, the longest blade of grass upon record, and once accepted, as a +half year's rent for a field of wheat, an ear, containing more grains than +had been seen before upon a single stem." + +I hope my old Sir Ambrose stands in no need of defence from me or from any +one; a man has a right to do what he likes with his own estate. The +characters I have introduced as candidates may not come off so easily; a +cluster of poets is not likely to be found in one village, and the +following lines, written by my good friend T. Park. Esq. of Hampstead, are +not only true, but beautifully true, and I cannot omit them. + + +WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF THANET, + +August, 1790. + +The bard, who paints from rural plains, + Must oft himself the void supply +Of damsels pure and artless swains, + Of innocence and industry: + +For sad experience shows the heart + Of human beings much the same; +Or polish'd by insidious art, + Or rude as from the clod it came. + +And he who roams the village round, + Or strays amid the harvest sere, +Will hear, as now, too many a sound + Quiet would never wish to hear. + +The wrangling rustics' loud abuse, + The coarse, unfeeling, witless jest, +The threat obscene, the oath profuse, + And all that cultured minds detest. + +Hence let those Sylvan poets glean, + Who picture life without a flaw; +Nature may form a perfect scene, + But Fancy must the figures draw. + +The word "fancy" connects itself with my very childhood, fifty years back. +The fancy of those who wrote the songs which I was obliged to hear in +infancy was a very inanimate and sleepy fancy. I could enumerate a dozen +songs at least which all described sleeping shepherds and shepherdesses, +and, in one instance, where they both went to sleep: this is not fair +certainly; it is not even "watch and watch." + +"As Damon and Phillis were keeping of sheep, +Being free from all care they retired to sleep," &c. + +I must say, that if I understand any thing at all about keeping sheep, +this is not the way to go to work with them. But such characters and such +writings were fashionable, and fashion will beat common sense at any time. + +With all the beauty and spirit of Cunningham's "Kate of Aberdeen," and +some others, I never found any thing to strike my mind so forcibly as the +last stanza of Dibdin's "Sailor's Journal"-- + +"At length, 'twas in the month of May, + Our crew, it being lovely weather, +At three A.M. discovered day + And England's chalky cliffs together! +At seven, up channel how we bore, + Whilst hopes and fears rush'd o'er each fancy! +At twelve, I gaily jump'd on shore, + And to my throbbing heart press'd Nancy." + +This, to my feelings, is a balm at all times; it is spirit, animation, and +imagery, all at once. + +I will plead no excuses for any thing which the reader may find in this +little volume, but merely state, that I once met with a lady in London, +who, though otherwise of strong mind and good information, would maintain +that "it is impossible for a blind man to fall in love." I always thought +her wrong, and the present tale of "Alfred and Jennet" is written to +elucidate my side of the question. + +I have been reported to be dead; but I can assure the reader that this, +like many other reports, is not true. I have written these tales in +anxiety, and in a wretched state of health; and if these formidable foes +have not incapacitated me, but left me free to meet the public eye with +any degree of credit, that degree of credit I am sure I shall gain. + +I am, with remembrance of what is past, + +Most respectfully, + +ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. + + +_Shefford, Bedfordshire,_ + +_April 10th_, 1822. + + + + + MAY-DAY WITH THE MUSES. + + + +THE INVITATION + +O for the strength to paint my joy once more! +That joy I feel when Winter's reign is o'er; +When the dark despot lifts his hoary brow, +And seeks his polar-realm's eternal snow. +Though black November's fogs oppress my brain, +Shake every nerve, and struggling fancy chain; +Though time creeps o'er me with his palsied hand, +And frost-like bids the stream of passion stand, +And through his dry teeth sends a shivering blast, +And points to more than fifty winters past, +Why should I droop with heartless, aimless eye? +Friends start around, and all my phantoms fly, +And Hope, upsoaring with expanded wing, +Unfolds a scroll, inscribed "Remember Spring." +Stay, sweet enchantress, charmer of my days, +And glance thy rainbow colours o'er my lays; +Be to poor Giles what thou hast ever been, +His heart's warm solace and his sovereign queen; +Dance with his rustics when the laugh runs high, +Live in the lover's heart, the maiden's eye; +Still be propitious when his feet shall stray +Beneath the bursting hawthorn-buds of May; +Warm every thought, and brighten every hour, +And let him feel thy presence and thy power. + +SIR AMBROSE HIGHAM, in his eightieth year, +With memory unimpair'd, and conscience clear, +His English heart untrammell'd, and full blown +His senatorial honours and renown, +Now, basking in his plenitude of fame, +Resolved, in concert with his noble dame, +To drive to town no more--no more by night +To meet in crowded courts a blaze of light, +In streets a roaring mob with flags unfurl'd, +And all the senseless discord of the world,-- +But calmly wait the hour of his decay, +The broad bright sunset of his glorious day; +And where he first drew breath at last to fall, +Beneath the towering shades of Oakly Hall[A]. + +[Footnote A: The seat of Sir Ambrose is situated in the author's +imagination only; the reader must build Oakly Hall where he pleases.] + +Quick spread the news through hamlet, field, and farm, +The labourer wiped his brow and staid his arm; +'Twas news to him of more importance far +Than change of empires or the yells of war; +It breathed a hope which nothing could destroy, +Poor widows rose, and clapp'd their hands for joy, +Glad voices rang at every cottage door, +"Good old Sir Ambrose goes to town no more." +Well might the village bells the triumph sound, +Well might the voice of gladness ring around; +Where sickness raged, or want allied to shame, +Sure as the sun his well-timed succour came; +Food for the starving child, and warmth and wine +For age that totter'd in its last decline. +From him they shared the embers' social glow; +_He_ fed the flame that glanced along the snow, +When winter drove his storms across the sky, +And pierced the bones of shrinking poverty. + +Sir Ambrose loved the Muses, and would pay +Due honours even to the ploughman's lay; +Would cheer the feebler bard, and with the strong +Soar to the noblest energies of song; +Catch the rib-shaking laugh, or from his eye +Dash silently the tear of sympathy. +Happy old man!--with feelings such as these +The seasons all can charm, and trifles please; +And hence a sudden thought, a new-born whim, +Would shake his cup of pleasure to the brim, +Turn scoffs and doubts and obstacles aside, +And instant action follow like a tide. + +Time past, he had on his paternal ground +With pride the latent sparks of genius found +In many a local ballad, many a tale, +As wild and brief as cowslips in the dale, +Though unrecorded as the gleams of light +That vanish in the quietness of night +"Why not," he cried, as from his couch he rose, +"To cheer my age, and sweeten my repose, +"Why not be just and generous in time, +"And bid my tenants pay their rents in rhyme? +"For one half year they shall.--A feast shall bring +"A crowd of merry faces in the spring;-- +"Here, pens, boy, pens; I'll weigh the case no more, +"But write the summons:--go, go, shut the door. + +"'All ye on Oakly manor dwelling, +'Farming, labouring, buying, selling, +'Neighbours! banish gloomy looks, +'My grey old steward shuts his books. +'Let not a thought of winter's rent +'Destroy one evening's merriment; +'I ask not gold, but tribute found +'Abundant on Parnassian ground. +'Choose, ye who boast the gift, your themes +'Of joy or pathos, tales or dreams, +'Choose each a theme;--but, harkye, bring +'No stupid ghost, no vulgar thing; +'Fairies, indeed, may wind their way, +'And sparkle through the brightest lay: +'I love their pranks, their favourite green, +'And, could the little sprites be seen, +'Were I a king, I'd sport with them, +'And dance beneath my diadem. +'But surely fancy need not brood +'O'er midnight darkness, crimes, and blood, +'In magic cave or monk's retreat, +'Whilst the bright world is at her feet; +'Whilst to her boundless range is given, +'By night, by day, the lights of heaven, +'And all they shine upon; whilst Love +'Still reigns the monarch of the grove, +'And real life before her lies +'In all its thousand, thousand dies. +'Then bring me nature, bring me sense, +'And joy shall be your recompense: +'On Old May-day I hope to see +'All happy:--leave the rest to me. +'A general feast shall cheer us all +'Upon the lawn that fronts the hall, +'With tents for shelter, laurel boughs +'And wreaths of every flower that blows. +'The months are wending fast away; +'Farewell,--remember Old May-day.'" + +Surprise, and mirth, and gratitude, and jeers, +The clown's broad wonder, th' enthusiast's tears, +Fresh gleams of comfort on the brow of care, +The sectary's cold shrug, the miser's stare, +Were all excited, for the tidings flew +As quick as scandal the whole country through. +"Rent paid by rhymes at Oakly may be great, +"But rhymes for taxes would appal the state," +Exclaim'd th' exciseman,--"and then tithes, alas! +"Why there, again, 'twill never come to pass."-- +Thus all still ventured, as the whim inclined, +Remarks as various as the varying mind: +For here Sir Ambrose sent a challenge forth, +That claim'd a tribute due to sterling worth; +And all, whatever might their host regale, +Agreed to share the feast and drink his ale. + +Now shot through many a heart a secret fire, +A new born spirit, an intense desire +For once to catch a spark of local fame, +And bear a poet's honourable name! +Already some aloft began to soar, +And some to think who never thought before; +But O, what numbers all their strength applied, +Then threw despairingly the task aside +With feign'd contempt, and vow'd they'd never tried. +Did dairy-wife neglect to turn her cheese, +Or idling miller lose the favouring breeze; +Did the young ploughman o'er the furrows stand, +Or stalking sower swing an empty hand, +One common sentence on their heads would fall, +'Twas Oakly banquet had bewitch'd them all. +Loud roar'd the winds of March, with whirling snow, +One brightening hour an April breeze would blow; +Now hail, now hoar-frost bent the flow'ret's head, +Now struggling beams their languid influence shed, +That scarce a cowering bird yet dared to sing +'Midst the wild changes of our island spring. +Yet, shall the Italian goatherd boasting cry, +"Poor Albion! when hadst thou so clear a sky!" +And deem that nature smiles for him alone; +Her renovated beauties all his own? +No:--let our April showers by night descend, +Noon's genial warmth with twilight stillness blend; +The broad Atlantic pour her pregnant breath, +And rouse the vegetable world from death; +Our island spring is rapture's self to me, +All I have seen, and all I wish to see. + +Thus came the jovial day, no streaks of red +O'er the broad portal of the morn were spread, +But one high-sailing mist of dazzling white, +A screen of gossamer, a magic light, +Doom'd instantly, by simplest shepherd's ken, +To reign awhile, and be exhaled at ten. +O'er leaves, o'er blossoms, by his power restored, +Forth came the conquering sun and look'd abroad; +Millions of dew-drops fell, yet millions hung, +Like words of transport trembling on the tongue +Too strong for utt'rance:--Thus the infant boy, +With rosebud cheeks, and features tuned to joy, +Weeps while he struggles with restraint or pain, +But change the scene, and make him laugh again, +His heart rekindles, and his cheek appears +A thousand times more lovely through his tears. + +From the first glimpse of day a busy scene +Was that high swelling lawn, that destined green, +Which shadowless expanded far and wide, +The mansion's ornament, the hamlet's pride; +To cheer, to order, to direct, contrive, +Even old Sir Ambrose had been up at five; +There his whole household labour'd in his view,-- +But light is labour where the task is new. +Some wheel'd the turf to build a grassy throne +Round a huge thorn that spread his boughs alone, +Rough-rined and bold, as master of the place; +Five generations of the Higham race +Had pluck'd his flowers, and still he held his sway, +Waved his white head, and felt the breath of May. +Some from the green-house ranged exotics round, +To back in open day on English ground: +And 'midst them in a line of splendour drew +Long wreaths and garlands, gather'd in the dew. +Some spread the snowy canvas, propp'd on high +O'er shelter'd tables with their whole supply; +Some swung the biting scythe with merry face, +And cropp'd the daisies for a dancing space. +Some roll'd the mouldy barrel in his might, +From prison'd darkness into cheerful light, +And fenced him round with cans; and others bore +The creaking hamper with its costly store, +Well cork'd, well flavour'd, and well tax'd, that came +From Lusitanian mountains, dear to fame, +Whence GAMA steer'd, and led the conquering way +To eastern triumphs and the realms of day. +A thousand minor tasks fill'd every hour, +'Till the sun gain'd the zenith of his power, +When every path was throng'd with old and young, +And many a sky-lark in his strength upsprung +To bid them welcome.--Not a face was there +But for May-day at least had banish'd care; +No cringing looks, no pauper tales to tell, +No timid glance, they knew their host too well,-- +Freedom was there, and joy in every eye: +Such scenes were England's boast in days gone by. + +Beneath the thorn was good Sir Ambrose found, +His guests an ample crescent form'd around; +Nature's own carpet spread the space between, +Where blithe domestics plied in gold and green. +The venerable chaplain waved his wand, +And silence follow'd as he stretch'd his hand, +And with a trembling voice, and heart sincere, +Implored a blessing on th' abundant cheer. +Down sat the mingling throng, and shared a feast +With hearty welcomes given, by love increased; +A patriarch family, a close-link'd band, +True to their rural chieftain, heart and hand: +The deep carouse can never boast the bliss, +The animation of a scene like this. + +At length the damask cloths were whisk'd away, +Like fluttering sails upon a summer's day; +The hey-day of enjoyment found repose; +The worthy baronet majestic rose; +They view'd him, while his ale was filling round, +The monarch of his own paternal ground. +His cup was full, and where the blossoms bow'd +Over his head, Sir Ambrose spoke aloud, +Nor stopp'd a dainty form or phrase to cull-- +His heart elated, like his cup, was full:-- +"Full be your hopes, and rich the crops that fall; +"Health to my neighbours, happiness to all." +Dull must that clown be, dull as winter's sleet, +Who would not instantly be on his feet: +An echoing health to mingling shouts gave place, +"Sir Ambrose Higham, and his noble race." + +Avaunt, Formality! thou bloodless dame, +With dripping besom quenching nature's flame; +Thou cankerworm, who liv'st but to destroy, +And eat the very heart of social joy;-- +Thou freezing mist round intellectual mirth, +Thou spell-bound vagabond of spurious birth, +Away! away! and let the sun shine clear, +And all the kindnesses of life appear. + +With mild complacency, and smiling brow, +The host look'd round, and bade the goblets flow; +Yet curiously anxious to behold +Who first would pay in rhymes instead of gold; +Each eye inquiring through the ring was glanced +To see who dared the task, who first advanced; +That instant started Philip from the throng, +Philip, a farmer's son, well known for song,-- +And, as the mingling whispers round him ran, +He humbly bow'd, and timidly began:-- + + + + +THE DRUNKEN FATHER + +Poor Ellen married Andrew Hall, + Who dwells beside the moor, +Where yonder rose-tree shades the wall, + And woodbines grace the door. + +Who does not know how blest, how loved + Were her mild laughing eyes +By every youth!--but Andrew proved + Unworthy of his prize. + +In tippling was his whole delight, + Each sign-post barr'd his way; +He spent in muddy ale at night + The wages of the day. + +Though Ellen still had charms, was young, + And he in manhood's prime, +She sad beside her cradle sung, + And sigh'd away her time. + +One cold bleak night, the stars were hid, + In vain she wish'd him home; +Her children cried, half cheer'd, half chid, + "O when will father come!" + +'Till Caleb, nine years old, upsprung, + And kick'd his stool aside, +And younger Mary round him clung, + "I'll go, and you shall guide." + +The children knew each inch of ground, + Yet Ellen had her fears; +Light from the lantern glimmer'd round, + And show'd her falling tears. + +"Go by the mill and down the lane; + "Return the same way home: +"Perhaps you'll meet him, give him light; + "O how I _wish_ he'd come." + +Away they went, as close and true + As lovers in the shade, +And Caleb swung his father's staff + At every step he made. + +The noisy mill-clack rattled on, + They saw the water flow, +And leap in silvery foam along, + Deep murmuring below. + +"We'll soon be there," the hero said, + "Come on, 'tis but a mile,-- +"Here's where the cricket-match was play'd, + "And here's the shady stile. + +"How the light shines up every bough! + "How strange the leaves appear! +"Hark!--What was that?--'tis silent now, + "Come, Mary, never fear." + +The staring oxen breathed aloud, + But never dream'd of harm; +A meteor glanced along the cloud + That hung o'er Wood-Hill Farm. + +Old Caesar bark'd and howl'd hard by, + All else was still as death, +But Caleb was ashamed to cry, + And Mary held her breath. + +At length they spied a distant light, + And heard a chorus brawl; +Wherever drunkards stopp'd at night, + Why there was Andrew Hall. + +The house was full, the landlord gay, + The bar-maid shook her head, +And wish'd the boobies far away + That kept her out of bed. + +There Caleb enter'd, firm, but mild, + And spoke in plaintive tone:-- +"My mother could not leave the child, + "So we are come alone." + +E'en drunken Andrew felt the blow + That innocence can give, +When its resistless accents flow + To bid affection live. + +"I'm coming, loves, I'm coming now,"-- + Then, shuffling o'er the floor, +Contrived to make his balance true, + And led them from the door. + +The plain broad path that brought him there + By day, though faultless then, +Was up and down and narrow grown, + Though wide enough for ten. + +The stiles were wretchedly contrived, + The stars were all at play, +And many a ditch had moved itself + Exactly in his way. + +But still conceit was uppermost, + That stupid kind of pride:-- +"Dost think I cannot see a post? + "Dost think I want a guide? + +"Why, Mary, how you twist and twirl! + "Why dost not keep the track? +"I'll carry thee home safe, my girl,"-- + Then swung her on his back. + +Poor Caleb muster'd all his wits + To bear the light ahead, +As Andrew reel'd and stopp'd by fits, + Or ran with thund'ring tread. + +Exult, ye brutes, traduced and scorn'd, + Though true to nature's plan; +Exult, ye bristled, and ye horn'd, + When infants govern man. + +Down to the mill-pool's dangerous brink + The headlong party drove; +The boy alone had power to think, + While Mary scream'd above. + +"Stop!" Caleb cried, "you've lost the path; + "The water's close before; +"I see it shine, 'tis very deep,-- + "Why, don't you hear it roar?" + +And then in agony exclaim'd, + "O where's my mother _now_?" +The Solomon of hops and malt + Stopp'd short and made a bow: + +His head was loose, his neck disjointed, + It cost him little trouble; +But, to be stopp'd and disappointed, + Poh! danger was a bubble. + +Onward be stepp'd, the boy alert, + Calling his courage forth, +Hung like a log on Andrew's skirt, + And down he brought them both. + +The tumbling lantern reach'd the stream, + Its hissing light soon gone; +'Twas night, without a single gleam, + And terror reign'd alone. + +A general scream the miller heard, + Then rubb'd his eyes and ran, +And soon his welcome light appear'd, + As grumbling he began:-- + +"What have we here, and whereabouts? + "Why what a hideous squall! +"Some drunken fool! I thought as much-- + "'Tis only Andrew Hall! + +"Poor children!" tenderly he said, + "But now the danger's past." +They thank'd him for his light and aid, + And drew near home at last. + +But who upon the misty path + To meet them forward press'd? +'Twas Ellen, shivering, with a babe + Close folded to her breast. + +Said Andrew, "Now you're glad, I know, + "To se-se-see us come;-- +"But I have taken care of both, + "And brought them bo-bo-both safe home." + +With Andrew vex'd, of Mary proud, + But prouder of her boy, +She kiss'd them both, and sobb'd aloud,-- + The children cried for joy. + +But what a home at last they found! + Of comforts all bereft; +The fire out, the last candle gone, + And not one penny left! + +But Caleb quick as light'ning flew, + And raised a light instead; +And as the kindling brands he blew, + His father snored in bed. + +No brawling, boxing termagant + Was Ellen, though offended; +Who ever knew a fault like this + By violence amended? + +No:--she was mild as April morn, + And Andrew loved her too; +She rose at daybreak, though forlorn, + To try what love could do. + +And as her waking husband groan'd, + And roll'd his burning head, +She spoke with all the power of truth, + Down kneeling by his bed. + +"Dear Andrew, hear me,--though distress'd + "Almost too much to speak,-- +"This infant starves upon my breast-- + "To scold I am too weak. + +"I work, I spin, I toil all day, + "Then leave my work to cry, +"And start with horror when I think + "You wish to see me die. + +"But _do_ you wish it? can that bring + "More comfort, or more joy? +"Look round the house, how destitute! + "Look at your ragged boy! + +"That boy should make a father proud, + "If any feeling can; +"Then save your children, save your wife, + "Your honour as a man. + +"Hear me, for God's sake hear me now, + "And act a father's part!" +The culprit bless'd her angel tongue, + And clasp'd her to his heart; + +And would have vow'd, and would have sworn, + But Ellen kiss'd him dumb,-- +"Exert your mind, vow to _yourself_, + "And better days will come. + +"I shall be well when you are kind, + "And you'll be better too."-- +"I'll drink no more,"--he quick rejoin'd,-- + "Be't poison if I do." + +From that bright day his plants, his flowers, + His crops began to thrive, +And for three years has Andrew been + The soberest man alive. + +Soon as he ended, acclamations 'rose, +Endang'ring modesty and self-repose, +Till the good host his prudent counsel gave, +Then listen'd all, the flippant and the grave. +"Let not applauses vanity inspire, +"Deter humility, or damp desire; +"Neighbours we are, then let the stream run fair, +"And every couplet be as free as air; +"Be silent when each speaker claims his right, +"Enjoy the day as I enjoy the sight: +"They shall not class us with the knavish elves, +"Who banish shame, and criticise themselves." + +Thenceforward converse flow'd with perfect ease, +Midst country wit, and rustic repartees. +One drank to Ellen, if such might be found, +And archly glanced at female faces round. +If one with tilted can began to bawl, +Another cried, "Remember Andrew Hall." + +Then, multifarious topics, corn and hay, +Vestry intrigues, the rates they had to pay, +The thriving stock, the lands too wet, too dry, +And all that bears on fruitful husbandry, +Ran mingling through the crowd--a crowd that might, +Transferr'd to canvas, give the world delight; +A scene that WILKIE might have touch'd with pride-- +The May-day banquet then had never died. + +But who is he, uprisen, with eye so keen, +In garb of shining plush of grassy green-- +Dogs climbing round him, eager for the start, +With ceaseless tail, and doubly beating heart? +A stranger, who from distant forests came, +The sturdy keeper of the Oakly game. +Short prelude made, he pointed o'er the hill, +And raised a voice that every ear might fill; +His heart was in his theme, and in the forest still. + + + + +THE FORESTER. + +[Illustration.] + + +THE FORESTER. + +Born in a dark wood's lonely dell, + Where echoes roar'd, and tendrils curl'd +Round a low cot, like hermit's cell, + Old Salcey Forest was my world. +I felt no bonds, no shackles then, + For life in freedom was begun; +I gloried in th' exploits of men, + And learn'd to lift my father's gun. + +O what a joy it gave my heart! + Wild as a woodbine up I grew; +Soon in his feats I bore a part, + And counted all the game he slew. +I learn'd the wiles, the shifts, the calls, + The language of each living thing; +I mark'd the hawk that darting falls, + Or station'd spreads the trembling wing. + +I mark'd the owl that silent flits, + The hare that feeds at eventide, +The upright rabbit, when he sits + And mocks you, ere he deigns to hide. +I heard the fox bark through the night, + I saw the rooks depart at morn, +I saw the wild deer dancing light, + And heard the hunter's cheering horn. + +Mad with delight, I roam'd around + From morn to eve throughout the year, +But still, midst all I sought or found, + My favourites were the spotted deer. +The elegant, the branching brow, + The doe's clean limbs and eyes of love; +The fawn as white as mountain snow, + That glanced through fern and brier and grove. + +One dark, autumnal, stormy day, + The gale was up in all its might, +The roaring forest felt its sway, + And clouds were scudding quick as light: +A ruthless crash, a hollow groan, + Aroused each self-preserving start, +The kine in herds, the hare alone, + And shagged colts that grazed apart. + +Midst fears instinctive, wonder drew + The boldest forward, gathering strength +As darkness lour'd, and whirlwinds blew, + To where the ruin stretch'd his length. +The shadowing oak, the noblest stem + That graced the forest's ample bound, +Had cast to earth his diadem; + His fractured limbs had delved the ground. + +He lay, and still to fancy groan'd; + He lay like Alfred when he died-- +Alfred, a king by Heaven enthroned, + His age's wonder, England's pride! +Monarch of forests, great as good, + Wise as the sage,--thou heart of steel! +Thy name shall rouse the patriot's blood + As long as England's sons can feel. + +From every lawn, and copse, and glade, + The timid deer in squadrons came, +And circled round their fallen shade + With all of language but its name. +Astonishment and dread withheld + The fawn and doe of tender years, +But soon a triple circle swell'd, + With rattling horns and twinkling ears. + +Some in his root's deep cavern housed, + And seem'd to learn, and muse, and teach, +Or on his topmost foliage browsed, + That had for centuries mock'd their reach. +Winds in their wrath these limbs could crash, + This strength, this symmetry could mar; +A people's wrath can monarchs dash + From bigot throne or purple car. + +When Fate's dread bolt in Clermont's bowers + Provoked its million tears and sighs, +A nation wept its fallen flowers, + Its blighted hopes, its darling prize.-- +So mourn'd my antler'd friends awhile, + So dark, so dread, the fateful day; +So mourn'd the herd that knew no guile, + Then turn'd disconsolate away! + +Who then of language will be proud? + Who arrogate that gift of heaven? +To wild herds when they bellow loud, + To all the forest-tribes 'tis given. +I've heard a note from dale or hill + That lifted every head and eye; +I've heard a scream aloft, so shrill + That terror seized on all that fly. + +Empires may fall, and nations groan, + Pride be thrown down, and power decay; +Dark bigotry may rear her throne, + But science is the light of day. +Yet, while so low my lot is cast, + Through wilds and forests let me range; +My joys shall pomp and power outlast-- + The voice of nature cannot change. + + * * * * * + +A soberer feeling through the crowd he flung, +Clermont was uppermost on every tongue; +But who can live on unavailing sighs? +The inconsolable are not the wise. +Spirit, and youth, and worth, demand a tear-- +That day was past, and sorrow was not here; +Sorrow the contest dared not but refuse +'Gainst Oakly's open cellar and the muse. + +Sir Ambrose cast his eye along the line, +Where many a cheerful face began to shine, +And, fixing on his man, cried, loud and clear, +"What have you brought, John Armstrong? let us hear." +Forth stepp'd his shepherd;--scanty locks of grey +Edged round a hat that seem'd to mock decay; +Its loops, its bands, were from the purest fleece, +Spun on the hills in silence and in peace. +A staff he bore carved round with birds and flowers, +The hieroglyphics of his leisure hours; +And rough form'd animals of various name, +Not just like BEWICK'S, but they meant the same. +Nor these alone his whole attention drew, +He was a poet,--this Sir Ambrose knew,-- +A strange one too;--and now had penn'd a lay, +Harmless and wild, and fitting for the day. +No tragic tale on stilts;--his mind had more +Of boundless frolic than of serious lore;-- +Down went his hat, his shaggy friend close by +Dozed on the grass, yet watch'd his master's eye. + + + +THE SHEPHERD'S DREAM: + +OR, FAIRIES' MASQUERADE. + +[Illustration] + +THE SHEPHERD'S DREAM: OR, FAIRIES' MASQUERADE. + +I had folded my flock, and my heart was o'erflowing, +I loiter'd beside the small lake on the heath; +The red sun, though down, left his drapery glowing, +And no sound was stirring, I heard not a breath: +I sat on the turf, but I meant not to sleep, +And gazed o'er that lake which for ever is new, +Where clouds over clouds appear'd anxious to peep +From this bright double sky with its pearl and its blue. + +Forgetfulness, rather than slumber, it seem'd, +When in infinite thousands the fairies arose +All over the heath, and their tiny crests gleam'd +In mock'ry of soldiers, our friends and our foes. +There a stripling went forth, half a finger's length high, +And led a huge host to the north with a dash; +Silver birds upon poles went before their wild cry, +While the monarch look'd forward, adjusting his sash. + +Soon after a terrible bonfire was seen, +The dwellings of fairies went down in their ire, +But from all I remember, I never could glean +Why the woodstack was burnt, or who set it on fire. +The flames seem'd to rise o'er a deluge of snow, +That buried its thousands,--the rest ran away; +For the hero had here overstrain'd his long bow, +Yet he honestly own'd the mishap of the day. + +Then the fays of the north like a hailstorm came on, +And follow'd him down to the lake in a riot, +Where they found a large stone which they fix'd him upon, +And threaten'd, and coax'd him, and bade him be quiet. +He that couquer'd them all, was to conquer no more, +But the million beheld he could conquer alone; +After resting awhile, he leap'd boldly on shore, +When away ran a fay that had mounted his throne. + +'Twas pleasant to see how they stared, how they scamper'd, +By furze-bush, by fern, by no obstacle stay'd, +And the few that held council, were terribly hamper'd, +For some were vindictive, and some were afraid. +I saw they were dress'd for a masquerade train, +Colour'd rags upon sticks they all brandish'd in view, +And of such idle things they seem'd mightily vain, +Though they nothing display'd but a bird split in two. + +Then out rush'd the stripling in battle array, +And both sides determined to fight and to maul: +Death rattled his jawbones to see such a fray, +And glory personified laugh'd at them all. +Here he fail'd,--hence he fled, with a few for his sake, +And leap'd into a cockle-shell floating hard by; +It sail'd to an isle in the midst of the lake, +Where they mock'd fallen greatness, and left him to die. + +Meanwhile the north fairies stood round in a ring, +Supporting his rival on guns and on spears, +Who, though not a soldier, was robed like a king; +Yet some were exulting, and some were in tears. +A lily triumphantly floated above, +The crowd press'd, and wrangling was heard through the whole; +Some soldiers look'd surly, some citizens strove +To hoist the old nightcap on liberty's pole. + +But methought in my dream some bewail'd him that fell, +And liked not his victors so gallant, so clever, +Till a fairy stepp'd forward, and blew through a shell, +"Bear misfortune with firmness, you'll triumph for ever." +I woke at the sound, all in silence, alone, +The moor-hens were floating like specks on a glass, +The dun clouds were spreading, the vision was gone, +And my dog scamper'd round 'midst the dew on the grass. + +I took up my staff, as a knight would his lance, +And said, "Here 's my sceptre, my baton, my spear, +And there's my prime minister far in advance, +Who serves me with truth for his food by the year." +So I slept without care till the dawning of day, +Then trimm'd up my woodbines and whistled amain; +My minister heard as he bounded away, +And we led forth our sheep to their pastures again. + +Scorch'd by the shadeless sun on Indian plains, +Mellow'd by age, by wants, and toils, and pains, +Those toils still lengthen'd when he reach'd that shore +Where Spain's bright mountains heard the cannons roar, +A pension'd veteran, doom'd no more to roam, +With glowing heart thus sung the joys of home. + + + + +THE SOLDIER'S HOME. + +[Illustration.] + + +THE SOLDIER'S HOME. + +My untried muse shall no high tone assume, +Nor strut in arms;--farewell my cap and plume: +Brief be my verse, a task within my power, +I tell my feelings in one happy hour; +But what an hour was that! when from the main +I reach'd this lovely valley once again! +A glorious harvest fill'd my eager sight, +Half shock'd, half waving in a flood of light; +On that poor cottage roof where I was born +The sun look'd down as in life's early morn. +I gazed around, but not a soul appear'd, +I listen'd on the threshold, nothing heard; +I call'd my father thrice, but no one came; +It was not fear or grief that shook my frame, +But an o'erpowering sense of peace and home, +Of toils gone by, perhaps of joys to come. +The door invitingly stood open wide, +I shook my dust, and set my staff aside. +How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air, +And take possession of my father's chair! +Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame, +Appear'd the rough initials of my name, +Cut forty years before!--the same old clock +Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock +I never can forget. A short breeze sprung, +And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue, +Caught the old dangling almanacks behind, +And up they flew, like banners in the wind; +Then gently, singly, down, down, down, they went, +And told of twenty years that I had spent +Far from my native land:--that instant came +A robin on the threshold; though so tame, +At first he look'd distrustful, almost shy, +And cast on me his coal-black stedfast eye, +And seem'd to say (past friendship to renew) +"Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?" +Through the room ranged the imprison'd humble bee, +And bomb'd, and bounced, and straggled to be free, +Dashing against the panes with sullen roar, +That threw their diamond sunlight on the floor; +That floor, clean sanded, where my fancy stray'd +O'er undulating waves the broom had made, +Reminding me of those of hideous forms +That met us as we pass'd the _Cape of Storms_, +Where high and loud they break, and peace comes never; +They roll and foam, and roll and foam for ever. +But _here_ was peace, that peace which home can yield; +The grasshopper, the partridge in the field, +And ticking clock, were all at once become +The substitutes for clarion, fife, and drum. +While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still +On beds of moss that spread the window sill, +I deem'd no moss my eyes had ever seen +Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green, +And guess'd some infant hand had placed it there, +And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare. +Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose, +My heart felt every thing but calm repose; +I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years, +But rose at once, and bursted into tears; +Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again, +And thought upon the past with shame and pain; +I raved at war and all its horrid cost, +And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost. +On carnage, fire, and plunder, long I mused, +And cursed the murdering weapons I had used. + +Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard, +One bespoke age, and one a child's appear'd.-- +In stepp'd my father with convulsive start, +And in an instant clasp'd me to his heart. +Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid, +And, stooping to the child, the old man said, +"Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again, +This is your uncle Charles, come home from Spain." +The child approach'd, and with her fingers light, +Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight.-- +But why thus spin my tale, thus tedious be? +Happy old Soldier! what's the world to me? + + * * * * * + +Change is essential to the youthful heart, +It cannot bound, it cannot act its part +To one monotonous delight a slave; +E'en the proud poet's lines become its grave: +By innate buoyancy, by passion led, +It acts instinctively, it will be fed. + +A troop of country lasses paced the green, +Tired of their seats, and anxious to be seen; +They pass'd Sir Ambrose, turn'd, and pass'd again, +Some lightly tripp'd, to make their meaning plain: +The old man knew it well, the thoughts of youth +Came o'er his mind like consciousness of truth, +Or like a sunbeam through a lowering sky, +It gave him youth again, and ecstacy; +He joy'd to see them in this favourite spot, +Who of fourscore, or fifty score, would not? +He wink'd, he nodded, and then raised his hand,-- +'Twas seen and answer'd by the Oakly band. +Forth leap'd the light of heart and light of heel, +E'en stiff limb'd age the kindling joy could feel. +They form'd, while yet the music started light; +The grass beneath their feet was short and bright, +Where thirty couple danced with all their might. +The Forester caught lasses one by one, +And twirl'd his glossy green against the sun; +The Shepherd threw his doublet on the ground, +And clapp'd his hands, and many a partner found: +His hat-loops bursted in the jocund fray, +And floated o'er his head like blooming May. +Behind his heels his dog was barking loud, +And threading all the mazes of the crowd; +And had he boasted one had wagg'd his tail, +And plainly said, "What can my master ail?" +To which the Shepherd, had he been more cool, +Had only said, "'Tis Oakly feast, you fool." + +But where was Philip, he who danced so well? +Had he retired, had pleasure broke her spell? +No, he had yielded to a tend'rer bond, +He sat beside his own sick Rosamond, +Whose illness long deferr'd their wedding hour; +She wept, and seem'd a lily in a shower; +She wept to see him 'midst a crowd so gay, +For her sake lose the honours of the day. +But could a gentle youth be so unkind? +Would Philip dance, and leave his girl behind? +She in her bosom hid a written prize, +Inestimably rich in Philip's eyes; +The warm effusion of a heart that glow'd +With joy, with love, and hope by Heaven bestow'd. +He woo'd, he soothed, and every art assay'd, +To hush the scruples of the bashful maid, +Drawing, at length, against her weak command, +Reluctantly the treasure from her hand: +And would have read, but passion chain'd his tongue, +He turn'd aside, and down the ballad flung; +And paused so long from feeling and from shame, +That old Sir Ambrose halloo'd him by name: +"Bring it to me, my lad, and never fear, +"I never blamed true love, or scorn'd a tear; +"They well become us, e'en where branded most." +He came, and made a proxy of his host, +Who, as the dancers cooling join'd the throng, +Eyed the fair writer as he read her song. + + + + +ROSAMOND'S SONG OF HOPE. + + +Sweet Hope, so oft my childhood's friend, + I will believe thee still, +For thou canst joy with sorrow blend, + Where grief alone would kill. + +When disappointments wrung my heart, + Ill brook'd in tender years, +Thou, like a sun, perform'dst thy part, + And dried my infant tears. + +When late I wore the bloom of health, + And love had bound me fast, +My buoyant heart would sigh by stealth + For fear it might not last. + +My sickness came, my bloom decay'd, + But Philip still was by; +And thou, sweet Hope, so kindly said, + "He'll weep if thou should'st die." + +Thou told'st me too, that genial Spring + Would bring me health again; +I feel its power, but cannot sing + Its glories yet for pain. + +But thou canst still my heart inspire, + And Heaven can strength renew; +I feel thy presence, holy fire! + My Philip will be true. + + * * * * * + +All eyes were turn'd, all hearts with pity glow'd, +The maid stood trembling, and the lover bow'd +As rose around them, while she dried her tears, +"Long life to Rosamond, and happy years!" + +Scarce had the voices ceased, when forth there came +Another candidate for village fame: +By gratitude to Heaven, by honest pride, +Impell'd to rise and cast his doubts aside, +A sturdy yeoman, button'd to the throat, +Faced the whole ring, and shook his leathern coat. +"I have a tale of private life to tell, +"'Tis all of self and home, I know it well; +"In love and honour's cause I would be strong, +"Mine is a father's tale, perhaps too long, +"For fathers, when a duteous child's the theme, +"Can talk a summer's sun down, and then dream +"Of retrospective joys with hearts that glow +"With feelings such as parents only know." + + + + +ALFRED AND JENNET. + +Yes, let me tell of Jennet, my last child; +In her the charms of all the rest ran wild, +And sprouted as they pleased. Still by my side, +I own she was my favourite, was my pride, +Since first she labour'd round my neck to twine, +Or clasp'd both little hands in one of mine: +And when the season broke, I've seen her bring +Lapfuls of flowers, and then the girl would sing +Whole songs, and halves, and bits, O, with such glee! +If playmates found a favourite, it was she. +Her lively spirit lifted her to joy; +To distance in the race a clumsy boy +Would raise the flush of conquest in her eye, +And all was dance, and laugh, and liberty. +Yet not hard-hearted, take me right, I beg, +The veriest romp that ever wagg'd a leg +Was Jennet; but when pity soothed her mind, +Prompt with her tears, and delicately kind. +The half-fledged nestling, rabbit, mouse, or dove, +By turns engaged her cares and infant love; +And many a one, at the last doubtful strife, +Warm'd in her bosom, started into life. + +At thirteen she was all that Heaven could send, +My nurse, my faithful clerk, my lively friend; +Last at my pillow when I sunk to sleep, +First on my threshold soon as day could peep: +I heard her happy to her heart's desire, +With clanking pattens, and a roaring fire. + +Then, having store of new-laid eggs to spare, +She fill'd her basket with the simple fare, +And weekly trudged (I think I see her still) +To sell them at yon house upon the hill. +Oft have I watch'd her as she stroll'd along, +Heard the gate bang, and heard her morning song; +And, as my warm ungovern'd feelings rose, +Said to myself, "Heaven bless her! there she goes." +Long would she tarry, and then dancing home, +Tell how the lady bade her oft'ner come, +And bade her talk and laugh without control; +For Jennet's voice was music to the soul, +My tale shall prove it:--For there dwelt a son, +An only child, and where there is but one, +Indulgence like a mildew reigns, from whence +Mischief may follow if that child wants sense. +But Alfred was a youth of noble mind, +With ardent passions, and with taste refined; +All that could please still courted heart and hand, +Music, joy, peace, and wealth, at his command; +Wealth, which his widow'd mother deem'd his own; +Except the poor, she lived for him alone. +Yet would she weep by stealth when he was near, +But check'd all sighs to spare his wounded ear; +For from his cradle he had never seen +Soul-cheering sunbeams, or wild nature's green. +But all life's blessings centre not in sight; +For Providence, that dealt him one long night, +Had given, in pity to the blooming boy, +Feelings more exquisitely tuned to joy. +Fond to excess was he of all that grew; +The morning blossom sprinkled o'er with dew, +Across his path, as if in playful freak, +Would dash his brow, and weep upon his cheek; +Each varying leaf that brush'd where'er he came, +Press'd to his rosy lip he call'd by name; +He grasp'd the saplings, measured every bough, +Inhaled the fragrance that the spring months throw +Profusely round, till his young heart confess'd +That all was beauty, and himself was bless'd. +Yet when he traced the wide extended plain, +Or clear brook side, he felt a transient pain; +The keen regret of goodness, void of pride, +To think he could not roam without a guide. + +Who, guess ye, knew these scenes of home delight +Better than Jennet, bless'd with health and sight? +Whene'er she came, he from his sports would slide, +And catch her wild laugh, listening by her side; +Mount to the tell-tale clock with ardent spring, +And _feel_ the passing hour, then fondly cling +To Jennet's arm, and tell how sweet the breath +Of bright May-mornings on the open heath; +Then off they started, rambling far and wide, +Like Cupid with a wood-nymph by his side. + +Thus months and months roll'd on, the summer pass'd, +And the long darkness, and the winter blast, +Sever'd the pair; no flowery fields to roam, +Poor Alfred sought his music and his home. +What wonder then if inwardly he pined? +The anxious mother mark'd her stripling's mind +Gloomy and sad, yet striving to be gay +As the long tedious evenings pass'd away: +'Twas her delight fresh spirits to supply.-- +My girl was sent for--just for company. + +A tender governess my daughter found, +Her temper placid, her instruction sound; +Plain were her precepts, full of strength, their power +Was founded on the practice of the hour: +Theirs were the happy nights to peace resign'd, +With ample means to cheer th' unbended mind. +The Sacred History, or the volumes fraught +With tenderest sympathy, or towering thought, +The laughter-stirring tale, the moral lay, +All that brings dawning reason into day. +There Jennet learn'd by maps, through every land +To travel, and to name them at command; +Would tell how great their strength, their bounds how far, +And show where uncle Charles was in the war. +The globe she managed with a timid hand, +Told which was ocean, which was solid land, +And said, whate'er their diff'rent climates bore, +All still roll'd round, though that I knew before. + +Thus grown familiar, and at perfect ease, +What could be Jennet's duty but to please? +Yet hitherto she kept, scarce knowing why, +One powerful charm reserved, and still was shy. +When Alfred from his grand-piano drew +Those heavenly sounds that seem'd for ever new, +She sat as if to sing would be a crime, +And only gazed with joy, and nodded time. +Till one snug evening, I myself was there, +The whispering lad inquired, behind my chair, +"Bowman, can Jennet sing?" "At home," said I, +"She sings from morn till night, and seems to fly +"From tune to tune, the sad, the wild, the merry, +"And moulds her lip to suit them like a cherry; +"She learn'd them here."--"O ho!" said he, "O ho!" +And rubb'd his hands, and stroked his forehead, so. +Then down he sat, sought out a tender strain, +Sung the first words, then struck the chords again; +"Come, Jennet, help me, you _must_ know this song +"Which I have sung, and you have heard so long." +I mark'd the palpitation of her heart, +Yet she complied, and strove to take a part, +But faint and fluttering, swelling by degrees, +Ere self-composure gave that perfect ease, +The soul of song:--then, with triumphant glee, +Resting her idle work upon her knee, +Her little tongue soon fill'd the room around +With such a voluble and magic sound, +That, 'spite of all her pains to persevere, +She stopp'd to sigh, and wipe a starting tear; +Then roused herself for faults to make amends. +While Alfred trembled to his fingers' ends. + +But when this storm of feeling sunk to rest, +Jennet, resuming, sung her very best, +And on the ear, with many a dying fall, +She pour'd th' enchanting "Harp of Tara's Hall." +Still Alfred hid his raptures from her view, +Still touch'd the keys, those raptures to renew, +And led her on to that sweet past'ral air, +The Highland Laddie with the yellow hair. +She caught the sound, and with the utmost ease +Bade nature's music triumph, sure to please: +Such truth, such warmth, such tenderness express'd, +That my old heart was dancing in my breast. +Upsprung the youth, "O Jennet, where's your hand? +"There's not another girl in all the land, +"If she could bring me empires, bring me sight, +"Could give me such unspeakable delight: +"You little baggage! not to tell before +"That you could sing; mind--you go home no more." + +Thus I have seen her from my own fire-side +Attain the utmost summit of her pride; +For, from that singing hour, as time roll'd round, +At the great house my Jennet might be found, +And, while I watch'd her progress with delight, +She had a father's blessing every night, +And grew in knowledge at that moral school +Till I began to guess myself a fool. +Music! why she could play as well as he! +At least I thought so,--but we'll let that be: +She read the poets, grave and light, by turns, +And talk'd of Cowper's "Task," and Robin Burns; +Nay, read without a book, as I may say, +As much as some could with in half a day. +'Twas thus I found they pass'd their happy time, +In all their walks, when nature in her prime +Spread forth her scents and hues, and whisper'd love +And joy to every bird in every grove; +And though their colours could not meet his eye, +She pluck'd him flowers, then talk'd of poetry. + +Once on a sunbright morning, 'twas in June, +I felt my spirits and my hopes in tune, +And idly rambled forth, as if t' explore +The little valley just before my door; +Down by yon dark green oak I found a seat +Beneath the clustering thorns, a snug retreat +For poets, as I deem'd, who often prize +Such holes and corners far from human eyes; +I mark'd young Alfred, led by Jennet, stray +Just to the spot, both chatting on their way: +They came behind me, I was still unseen; +He was the elder, Jennet was sixteen. +My heart misgave me, lest I should be deem'd +A prying listener, never much esteem'd, +But this fear soon subsided, and I said, +"I'll hear this blind lad and my little maid." +That instant down she pluck'd a woodbine wreath, +The loose leaves rattled on my head beneath; +This was for Alfred, which he seized with joy, +"O, thank you, Jennet," said the generous boy. +Much was their talk, which many a theme supplied, +As down they sat, for every blade was dried. + +I would have skulk'd away, but dare not move, +"Besides," thought I, "they will not talk of love;" +But I was wrong, for Alfred, with a sigh, +A little tremulous, a little shy, +But, with the tenderest accents, ask'd his guide +A question which might touch both love and pride. +"This morning, Jennet, why did you delay, +"And talk to that strange clown upon your way, +"Our homespun gardener? how can you bear +"His screech-owl tones upon your perfect ear? +"I cannot like that man, yet know not why, +"He's surely quite as old again as I; +"He's ignorant, and cannot be your choice, +"And ugly too, I'm certain, by his voice, +"Besides, he call'd you pretty."--"Well, what then? +"I cannot hide my face from all the men; +"Alfred, indeed, indeed, you are deceived, +"He never spoke a word that I believed; +"Nay, can he think that I would leave a home +"Full of enjoyment, present, and to come, +"While your dear mother's favours daily prove +"How sweet the bonds of gratitude and love? +"No, while beneath her roof I shall remain, +"I'll never vex you, never give you pain." +"Enough, my life," he cried, and up they sprung; +By Heaven, I almost wish'd that I was young; +It was a dainty sight to see them pass, +Light as the July fawns upon the grass, +Pure as the breath of spring when forth it spreads, +Love in their hearts, and sunshine on their heads. + +Next day I felt what I was bound to do, +To weigh the adventure well, and tell it too; +For Alfred's mother must not be beguiled, +He was her earthly hope, her only child; +I had no wish, no right to pass it by, +It might bring grief, perhaps calamity. +She was the judge, and she alone should know +Whether to check the flame or let it grow. +I went with fluttering heart, and moisten'd eye, +But strong in truth, and arm'd for her reply. + +"Well, master Bowman, why that serious face?" +Exclaim'd the lovely dame, with such a grace, +That had I knelt before her, I had been +Not quite the simplest votary ever seen. +I told my tale, and urged that well-known truth, +That the soft passion in the bloom of youth +Starts into power, and leads th' unconscious heart +A chase where reason takes but little part; +Nothing was more in nature, or more pure, +And from their habits nothing was more sure. +Whether the lady blush'd from pride or joy, +I could but guess;--at length she said--"My boy +Dropp'd not a syllable of this to me! +What was I doing, that I could not see? +Through all the anxious hours that I have known, +His welfare still was dearer than my own; +How have I mourn'd o'er his unhappy fate! +Blind as he is! the heir to my estate! +I now might break his heart, and Jennet's too; +What must I, Bowman, or what can I do?"-- +"Do, madam?" said I, boldly, "if you trace +"Impending degradation or disgrace +"In this attachment, let us not delay; +"Send my girl home, and check it while you may." +"I will," she said, but the next moment sigh'd; +Parental love was struggling hard with pride. + +I left her thus, deep musing, and soon found +My daughter, for I traced her by the sound +Of Alfred's flageolet; no cares had they, +But in the garden bower spent half the day. +By starts he sung, then wildest trillings made, +To mock a piping blackbird in the glade. +I turn'd a corner and approach'd the pair; +My little rogue had roses in her hair! +She whipp'd them out, and with a downcast look, +Conquer'd a laugh by poring on her book. +My object was to talk with her aside, +But at the sight my resolution died; +They look'd so happy in their blameless glee, +That, as I found them, I e'en let them be; +Though Jennet promised a few social hours +'Midst her old friends, my poultry, and my flowers. +She came,--but not till fatal news had wrung +Her heart through sleepless hours, and chain'd her tongue. +She came, but with a look that gave me pain, +For, though bright sunbeams sparkled after rain, +Though every brood came round, half run, half fly, +I knew her anguish by her alter'd eye; +And strove, with all my power, where'er she came, +To soothe her grief, yet gave it not a name. +At length a few sad bitter tears she shed. +And on both hands reclined her aching head. +'Twas then my time the conqueror to prove, +I summon'd all my rhetoric, all my love. +"Jennet, you must not think to pass through life +"Without its sorrows, and without its strife; +"Good, dutiful, and worthy, as you are, +"You must have griefs, and you must learn to bear." +Thus I went on, trite moral truths to string,-- +All chaff, mere chaff, where love has spread his wing: +She cared not, listen'd not, nor seem'd to know +What was my aim, but wiped her burning brow, +Where sat more eloquence and living power +Than language could embody in an hour. +With soften'd tone I mention'd Alfred's name, +His wealth, our poverty, and that sad blame +Which would have weigh'd me down, had I not told +The secret which I dare not keep for gold, +Of Alfred's love, o'erheard the other morn. +The gardener, and the woodbine, and the thorn; +And added, "Though the lady sends you home, +"You are but young, child, and a day may come"-- +"She has _not_ sent me home," the girl replied, +And rose with sobs of passion from my side; +"She has _not_ sent me home, dear father, no; +"She gives me leave to tarry or to go; +"She has not _blamed_ me,--yet she weeps no less, +"And every tear but adds to my distress; +"I am the cause,--thus all that she has done +"Will bring the death or misery of her son. +"Jealous he might be, could he but have seen +"How other lads approach'd where I have been; +"But this man's voice offends his very soul, +"That strange antipathy brooks no control; +"And should I leave him now, or seem unkind, +"The thought would surely wreck his noble mind; +"To leave him thus, and in his utmost need! +"Poor Alfred! then you will be blind indeed! +"I will not leave him."--"Nay, child, do not rave, +"What, would you be his menial, be his slave?" +"Yes," she exclaim'd, and wiped each streaming eye, +"Yes, be his slave, and serve him till I die; +"He is too just to act the tyrant's part, +"He's truth itself." O how my burthen'd heart +Sigh'd for relief!--soon that relief was found; +Without one word we traced the meadow round, +Her feverish hand in mine, and weigh'd the case, +Nor dared to look each other in the face; +Till, with a sudden stop, as if from fear, +I roused her sinking spirit, "Who comes here?" + +Down the green slope before us, glowing warm, +Came Alfred, tugging at his mother's arm; +Willing she seem'd, but he still led the way, +She had not walk'd so fast for many a day; +His hand was lifted, and his brow was bare, +For now no clust'ring ringlets wanton'd there, +He threw them back in anger and in spleen, +And shouted "Jennet" o'er the daisied green. +Boyish impatience strove with manly grace +In ev'ry line and feature of his face; +His claim appear'd resistless as his choice, +And when he caught the sound of Jennet's voice, +And when with spotless soul he clasp'd the maid, +My heart exulted while my breath was staid. +"Jennet, we must not part! return again; +"What have I done to merit all this pain? +"Dear mother, share my fortune with the poor, +"Jennet is mine, and _shall_ be--say no more; +"Bowman, you know not what a friend I'll be; +"Give me your daughter, Bowman, give her me; +"Jennet, what will my days be if you go? +"A dreary darkness, and a life of woe: +"My dearest love, come _home_, and do not cry; +"You are my daylight, Jennet, I shall die." + +To such appeals all prompt replies are cold, +And stately prudence snaps her cobweb hold. +Had the good widow tried, or wish'd to speak, +This was a bond she could not, dared not break; +Their hearts (you never saw their likeness, never) +Were join'd, indissolubly join'd for ever. +Why need I tell how soon our tears were dried. +How Jennet blush'd, how Alfred with a stride +Bore off his prize, and fancied every charm, +And clipp'd against his ribs her trembling arm; +How mute we seniors stood, our power all gone? +Completely conquer'd, Love the day had won, +And the young vagrant triumph'd in our plight, +And shook his roguish plumes, and laugh'd outright. +Yet, by my life and hopes, I would not part +With this sweet recollection from my heart; +I would not now forget that tender scene +To wear a crown, or make my girl a queen. +Why need be told how pass'd the months along, +How sped the summer's walk, the winter's song, +How the foil'd suitor all his hopes gave up, +How Providence with rapture fill'd their cup? +No dark regrets, no tragic scenes to prove, +The gardener was too old to die for love. +A thousand incidents I cast aside +To tell but one--I gave away the bride-- +Gave the dear youth what kings could not have given; +Then bless'd them both, and put my trust in Heaven. +There the old neighbours laugh'd the night away, +Who talk of Jennet's wedding to this day. +And could you but have seen the modest grace, +The half-hid smiles that play'd in Jennet's face, +Or mark'd the bridegroom's bounding heart o'erflow, +You might have wept for joy, as I could now: +I speak from memory of days long past; +Though 'tis a father's tale, I've done at last. + + * * * * * + +Here rest thee, rest thee, Muse, review the scene +Where thou with me from peep of dawn hast been: +We did not promise that this motley throng +Should every _one_ supply a votive song; +Nor every tenant:--yet thou hast been kind, +For untold tales must still remain behind, +Which might o'er listening patience still prevail. +Did fancy waver not, nor daylight fail. +"The Soldier's Wife," her toils, his battles o'er, +"Love in a Shower," the riv'let's sudden roar; +Then, "Lines to Aggravation" form the close, +Parent of murders, and the worst of woes. +But while the changeful hours of daylight flew, +Some homeward look'd, and talk'd of evening dew; +Some watch'd the sun's decline, and stroll'd around, +Some wish'd another dance, and partners found; +When in an instant every eye was drawn +To one bright object on the upper lawn; +A fair procession from the mansion came, +Unknown its purport, and unknown its aim. +No gazer could refrain, no tongue could cease, +It seem'd an embassy of love and peace. +Nearer and nearer still approach'd the train, +Age in the van transform'd to youth again. +Sir Ambrose gazed, and scarce believed his eyes; +'Twas magic, memory, love, and blank surprise, +For there his venerable lady wore +The very dress which, sixty years before, +Had sparkled on her sunshine bridal morn, +Had sparkled, ay, beneath this very thorn! +Her hair was snowy white, o'er which was seen, +Emblem of what her bridal cheeks had been, +A twin red rose--no other ornament +Had pride suggested, or false feeling lent; +She came to grace the triumph of her lord, +And pay him honours at his festive board. + +Nine ruddy lasses follow'd where she stepp'd; +White were their virgin robes, that lightly swept +The downy grass; in every laughing eye +Cupid had skulk'd, and written "victory." +What heart on earth its homage could refuse? +Each tripp'd, unconsciously, a blushing Muse. +A slender chaplet of fresh blossoms bound +Their clustering ringlets in a magic round. +And, as they slowly moved across the green, +Each in her beauty seem'd a May-day queen. +The first a wreath bore in her outstretch'd hand, +The rest a single rose upon a wand; +Their steps were measured to that grassy throne +Where, watching them, Sir Ambrose sat alone. +They stopp'd,--when she, the foremost of the row, +Curtsied, and placed the wreath upon his brow; +The rest, in order pacing by his bower, +In the loop'd wreath left each her single flower,-- +Then stood aside.--What broke the scene's repose? +The whole assembly clapp'd their hands and rose. + +The Muses charm'd them as they form'd a ring, +And look'd the very life and soul of Spring! +But still the white hair'd dame they view'd with pride, +Her love so perfect, and her truth so tried. +Oh, sweet it is to hear, to see, to name, +Unquench'd affection in the palsied frame-- +To think upon the boundless raptures past, +And love, triumphant, conquering to the last! + +Silenced by feeling, vanquish'd by his tears, +The host sprung up, nor felt the weight of years; +Yet utterance found not, though in virtue's cause, +But acclamations fill'd up nature's pause, +Till, by one last and vigorous essay, +His tide of feeling roll'd itself away; +The language of delight its bondage broke, +And many a warm heart bless'd him as he spoke. + +"Neighbours and friends, by long experience proved, +"Pardon this weakness; I was too much moved: +"My dame, you see, can youth and age insnare, +"In vain I strove, 'twas more than I could bear,-- +"Yet hear me,--though the tyrant passions strive, +"The words of truth, like leading stars, survive; +"I thank you all, but will accomplish more-- +"Your verses shall not die as heretofore; +"Your local tales shall not be thrown away, +"Nor war remain the theme of every lay. +"Ours is an humbler task, that may release +"The high-wrought soul, and mould it into peace. +"These pastoral notes some victor's ear may fill, +"Breathed amidst blossoms, where the drum is still: +"I purpose then to send them forth to try +"The public patience, or its apathy. +"The world shall see them; why should I refrain? +"'Tis all the produce of my own domain. +"Farewell!" he said, then took his lady's arm, +On his shrunk hand her starting tears fell warm; +Again he turn'd to view the happy crowd, +And cried, "Good night, good night, good night," aloud, +"Health to you all! for see, the evening closes," +Then march'd to rest, beneath his crown of roses. +"Happy old man! with feelings such as these, +"The seasons all can charm, and trifles please." +An instantaneous shout re-echoed round, +'Twas wine and gratitude inspired the sound: +Some joyous souls resumed the dance again, +The aged loiter'd o'er the homeward plain, +And scatter'd lovers rambled through the park, +And breathed their vows of honour in the dark; +Others a festal harmony preferr'd, +Still round the thorn the jovial song was heard; +Dance, rhymes, and fame, they scorn'd such things as these, +But drain'd the mouldy barrel to its lees, +As if 'twere worse than shame to want repose: +Nor was the lawn clear till the moon arose, +And on each turret pour'd a brilliant gleam +Of modest light, that trembled on the stream; +The owl awoke, but dared not yet complain, +And banish'd silence re-assumed her reign. + + +THE END. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's May Day With The Muses, by Robert Bloomfield + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAY DAY WITH THE MUSES *** + +This file should be named mayda10.txt or mayda10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, mayda11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, mayda10a.txt + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Charles Bidwell and Distributed Proofreaders + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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