May Day with the Muses | Page 6

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