May Day with the Muses | Page 4

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