May Day with the Muses | Page 2

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,