May Day with the Muses | Page 3

labouring, buying, selling,?'Neighbours! banish gloomy looks,?'My grey old steward shuts his books.?'Let not a thought of winter's rent?'Destroy one evening's merriment;?'I ask not gold, but tribute found?'Abundant on Parnassian ground.?'Choose, ye who boast the gift, your themes?'Of joy or pathos, tales or dreams,?'Choose each a theme;--but, harkye, bring?'No stupid ghost, no vulgar thing;?'Fairies, indeed, may wind their way,?'And sparkle through the brightest lay:?'I love their pranks, their favourite green,?'And, could the little sprites be seen,?'Were I a king, I'd sport with them,?'And dance beneath my diadem.?'But surely fancy need not brood?'O'er midnight darkness, crimes, and blood,?'In magic cave or monk's retreat,?'Whilst the bright world is at her feet;?'Whilst to her boundless range is given,?'By night, by day, the lights of heaven,?'And all they shine upon; whilst Love?'Still reigns the monarch of the grove,?'And real life before her lies?'In all its thousand, thousand dies.?'Then bring me nature, bring me sense,?'And joy shall be your recompense:?'On Old May-day I hope to see?'All happy:--leave the rest to me.?'A general feast shall cheer us all?'Upon the lawn that fronts the hall,?'With tents for shelter, laurel boughs?'And wreaths of every flower that blows.?'The months are wending fast away;?'Farewell,--remember Old May-day.'"
Surprise, and mirth, and gratitude, and jeers,?The clown's broad wonder, th' enthusiast's tears,?Fresh gleams of comfort on the brow of care,?The sectary's cold shrug, the miser's stare,?Were all excited, for the tidings flew?As quick as scandal the whole country through.?"Rent paid by rhymes at Oakly may be great,?"But rhymes for taxes would appal the state,"?Exclaim'd th' exciseman,--"and then tithes, alas!?"Why there, again, 'twill never come to pass."--?Thus all still ventured, as the whim inclined,?Remarks as various as the varying mind:?For here Sir Ambrose sent a challenge forth,?That claim'd a tribute due to sterling worth;?And all, whatever might their host regale,?Agreed to share the feast and drink his ale.
Now shot through many a heart a secret fire,?A new born spirit, an intense desire?For once to catch a spark of local fame,?And bear a poet's honourable name!?Already some aloft began to soar,?And some to think who never thought before;?But O, what numbers all their strength applied,?Then threw despairingly the task aside?With feign'd contempt, and vow'd they'd never tried.?Did dairy-wife neglect to turn her cheese,?Or idling miller lose the favouring breeze;?Did the young ploughman o'er the furrows stand,?Or stalking sower swing an empty hand,?One common sentence on their heads would fall,?'Twas Oakly banquet had bewitch'd them all.?Loud roar'd the winds of March, with whirling snow,?One brightening hour an April breeze would blow;?Now hail, now hoar-frost bent the flow'ret's head,?Now struggling beams their languid influence shed,?That scarce a cowering bird yet dared to sing?'Midst the wild changes of our island spring.?Yet, shall the Italian goatherd boasting cry,?"Poor Albion! when hadst thou so clear a sky!"?And deem that nature smiles for him alone;?Her renovated beauties all his own??No:--let our April showers by night descend,?Noon's genial warmth with twilight stillness blend;?The broad Atlantic pour her pregnant breath,?And rouse the vegetable world from death;?Our island spring is rapture's self to me,?All I have seen, and all I wish to see.
Thus came the jovial day, no streaks of red?O'er the broad portal of the morn were spread,?But one high-sailing mist of dazzling white,?A screen of gossamer, a magic light,?Doom'd instantly, by simplest shepherd's ken,?To reign awhile, and be exhaled at ten.?O'er leaves, o'er blossoms, by his power restored,?Forth came the conquering sun and look'd abroad;?Millions of dew-drops fell, yet millions hung,?Like words of transport trembling on the tongue?Too strong for utt'rance:--Thus the infant boy,?With rosebud cheeks, and features tuned to joy,?Weeps while he struggles with restraint or pain,?But change the scene, and make him laugh again,?His heart rekindles, and his cheek appears?A thousand times more lovely through his tears.
From the first glimpse of day a busy scene?Was that high swelling lawn, that destined green,?Which shadowless expanded far and wide,?The mansion's ornament, the hamlet's pride;?To cheer, to order, to direct, contrive,?Even old Sir Ambrose had been up at five;?There his whole household labour'd in his view,--?But light is labour where the task is new.?Some wheel'd the turf to build a grassy throne?Round a huge thorn that spread his boughs alone,?Rough-rined and bold, as master of the place;?Five generations of the Higham race?Had pluck'd his flowers, and still he held his sway,?Waved his white head, and felt the breath of May.?Some from the green-house ranged exotics round,?To back in open day on English ground:?And 'midst them in a line of splendour drew?Long wreaths and garlands, gather'd in the dew.?Some spread the snowy canvas, propp'd on high?O'er shelter'd tables with their whole supply;?Some swung the biting scythe with merry face,?And cropp'd the daisies for a dancing space.?Some roll'd the mouldy barrel in his might,?From prison'd darkness into cheerful light,?And fenced him round with cans; and others bore?The creaking hamper with its costly store,?Well cork'd, well flavour'd, and