May Day with the Muses | Page 3

generous in time,
"And bid my tenants pay their
rents in rhyme?
"For one half year they shall.--A feast shall bring

"A crowd of merry faces in the spring;--
"Here, pens, boy, pens; I'll
weigh the case no more,
"But write the summons:--go, go, shut the
door.
"'All ye on Oakly manor dwelling,
'Farming, 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