May Day with the Muses | Page 2

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