May Day with the Muses | Page 9

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