May Day with the Muses by Robert Bloomfield (100 best novels of all time .txt) 📕

I had been
Not quite the simplest votary ever seen.
I told my tale, and urged that well-known truth,
That the soft passion in the bloom of youth
Starts into power, and leads th' unconscious heart
A chase where reason takes but little part;
Nothing was more in nature, or more pure,
And from their habits nothing was more sure.
Whether the lady blush'd from pride or joy,
I could but guess;--at length she said--"My boy
Dropp'd not a syllable of this to me!
What was I doing, that I could not see?
Through all the anxious hours that I have known,
His welfare still was dearer than my own;
How have I mourn'd o'er his unhappy fate!
Blind as he is! the heir to my estate!
I now might break his heart, and Jennet's too;
What must I, Bowman, or what can I do?"--
"Do, madam?" said I, boldly, "if you trace
"Impending degradation or disgrace
"In this attachment, let us not delay;
"Send my girl home, and check it while you may."
"I will," she said, but the next moment sigh'd;
Parental love was struggling hard with pride.

I left her thus, deep musing, and soon found
My daughter, for I traced her by the sound
Of Alfred's flageolet; no cares had they,
But in the garden bower spent half the day.
By starts he sung, then wildest trillings made,
To mock a piping blackbird in the glade.
I turn'd a corner and approach'd the pair;
My little rogue had roses in her hair!
She whipp'd them out, and with a downcast look,
Conquer'd a laugh by poring on her book.
My object was to talk with her aside,
But at the sight my resolution died;
They look'd so happy in their blameless glee,
That, as I found them, I e'en let them be;
Though Jennet promised a few social hours
'Midst her old friends, my poultry, and my flowers.
She came,--but not till fatal news had wrung
Her heart through sleepless hours, and chain'd her tongue.
She came, but with a look that gave me pain,
For, though bright sunbeams sparkled after rain,
Though every brood came round, half run, half fly,
I knew her anguish by her alter'd eye;
And strove, with all my power, where'er she came,
To soothe her grief, yet gave it not a name.
At length a few sad bitter tears she shed.
And on both hands reclined her aching head.
'Twas then my time the conqueror to prove,
I summon'd all my rhetoric, all my love.
"Jennet, you must not think to pass through life
"Without its sorrows, and without its strife;
"Good, dutiful, and worthy, as you are,
"You must have griefs, and you must learn to bear."
Thus I went on, trite moral truths to string,--
All chaff, mere chaff, where love has spread his wing:
She cared not, listen'd not, nor seem'd to know
What was my aim, but wiped her burning brow,
Where sat more eloquence and living power
Than language could embody in an hour.
With soften'd tone I mention'd Alfred's name,
His wealth, our poverty, and that sad blame
Which would have weigh'd me down, had I not told
The secret which I dare not keep for gold,
Of Alfred's love, o'erheard the other morn.
The gardener, and the woodbine, and the thorn;
And added, "Though the lady sends you home,
"You are but young, child, and a day may come"--
"She has _not_ sent me home," the girl replied,
And rose with sobs of passion from my side;
"She has _not_ sent me home, dear father, no;
"She gives me leave to tarry or to go;
"She has not _blamed_ me,--yet she weeps no less,
"And every tear but adds to my distress;
"I am the cause,--thus all that she has done
"Will bring the death or misery of her son.
"Jealous he might be, could he but have seen
"How other lads approach'd where I have been;
"But this man's voice offends his very soul,
"That strange antipathy brooks no control;
"And should I leave him now, or seem unkind,
"The thought would surely wreck his noble mind;
"To leave him thus, and in his utmost need!
"Poor Alfred! then you will be blind indeed!
"I will not leave him."--"Nay, child, do not rave,
"What, would you be his menial, be his slave?"
"Yes," she exclaim'd, and wiped each streaming eye,
"Yes, be his slave, and serve him till I die;
"He is too just to act the tyrant's part,
"He's truth itself." O how my burthen'd heart
Sigh'd for relief!--soon that relief was found;
Without one word we traced the meadow round,
Her feverish hand in mine, and weigh'd the case,
Nor dared to look each other in the face;
Till, with a sudden stop, as if from fear,
I roused her sinking spirit, "Who comes here?"

Down the green slope before us, glowing warm,
Came Alfred, tugging at his mother's arm;
Willing she seem'd, but he still led the way,
She had not walk'd so fast for many a day;
His hand was lifted, and his brow was bare,
For now no clust'ring ringlets wanton'd there,
He threw them back in anger and in spleen,
And shouted "Jennet" o'er the daisied green.
Boyish impatience strove with manly grace
In ev'ry line and feature of his face;
His claim appear'd resistless as his choice,
And when he caught the sound of Jennet's voice,
And when with spotless soul he clasp'd the maid,
My heart exulted while my breath was staid.
"Jennet, we must not part! return again;
"What have I done to merit all this pain?
"Dear mother, share my fortune with the poor,
"Jennet is mine, and _shall_ be--say no more;
"Bowman, you know not what a friend I'll be;
"Give me your daughter, Bowman, give her me;
"Jennet, what will my days be if you go?
"A dreary darkness, and a life of woe:
"My dearest love, come _home_, and do not cry;
"You are my daylight, Jennet, I shall die."

To such appeals all prompt replies are cold,
And stately prudence snaps her cobweb hold.
Had the good widow tried, or wish'd to speak,
This was a bond she could not, dared not break;
Their hearts (you never saw their likeness, never)
Were join'd, indissolubly join'd for ever.
Why need I tell how soon our tears were dried.
How Jennet blush'd, how Alfred with a stride
Bore off his prize, and fancied every charm,
And clipp'd against his ribs her trembling arm;
How mute we seniors stood, our power all gone?
Completely conquer'd, Love the day had won,
And the young vagrant triumph'd in our plight,
And shook his roguish plumes, and laugh'd outright.
Yet, by my life and hopes, I would not part
With this sweet recollection from my heart;
I would not now forget that tender scene
To wear a crown, or make my girl a queen.
Why need be told how pass'd the months along,
How sped the summer's walk, the winter's song,
How the foil'd suitor all his hopes gave up,
How Providence with rapture fill'd their cup?
No dark regrets, no tragic scenes to prove,
The gardener was too old to die for love.
A thousand incidents I cast aside
To tell but one--I gave away the bride--
Gave the dear youth what kings could not have given;
Then bless'd them both, and put my trust in Heaven.
There the old neighbours laugh'd the night away,
Who talk of Jennet's wedding to this day.
And could you but have seen the modest grace,
The half-hid smiles that play'd in Jennet's face,
Or mark'd the bridegroom's bounding heart o'erflow,
You might have wept for joy, as I could now:
I speak from memory of days long past;
Though 'tis a father's tale, I've done at last.

* * * * *

Here rest thee, rest thee, Muse, review the scene
Where thou with me from peep of dawn hast been:
We did not promise that this motley throng
Should every _one_ supply a votive song;
Nor every tenant:--yet thou hast been kind,
For untold tales must still remain behind,
Which might o'er listening patience still prevail.
Did fancy waver not, nor daylight fail.
"The Soldier's Wife," her toils, his battles o'er,
"Love in a Shower," the riv'let's sudden roar;
Then, "Lines to Aggravation" form the close,
Parent of murders, and the worst of woes.
But while the changeful hours of daylight flew,
Some homeward look'd, and talk'd of evening dew;
Some watch'd the sun's decline, and stroll'd around,
Some wish'd another dance, and partners found;
When in an instant every eye was drawn
To one bright object on the upper lawn;
A fair procession from the mansion came,
Unknown its purport, and unknown its aim.
No gazer could refrain, no tongue could cease,
It seem'd an embassy of love and peace.
Nearer and nearer still approach'd the train,
Age in the van transform'd to youth again.
Sir Ambrose gazed, and scarce believed his eyes;
'Twas magic, memory, love, and blank surprise,
For there his venerable lady wore
The very dress which, sixty years before,
Had sparkled on her sunshine bridal morn,
Had sparkled, ay, beneath this very thorn!
Her hair was snowy white, o'er which was seen,
Emblem of what her bridal cheeks had been,
A twin red rose--no other ornament
Had pride suggested, or false feeling lent;
She came to grace the triumph of her lord,
And pay him honours at his festive board.

Nine ruddy lasses follow'd where she stepp'd;
White were their virgin robes, that lightly swept
The downy grass; in every laughing eye
Cupid had skulk'd, and written "victory."
What heart on earth its homage could refuse?
Each tripp'd, unconsciously, a blushing Muse.
A slender chaplet of fresh blossoms bound
Their clustering ringlets in a magic round.
And, as they slowly moved across the green,
Each in her beauty seem'd a May-day queen.
The first a wreath bore in her outstretch'd hand,
The rest a single rose upon a wand;
Their steps were measured to that grassy throne
Where, watching them, Sir Ambrose sat alone.
They stopp'd,--when she, the foremost of the row,
Curtsied, and placed the wreath upon his brow;
The rest, in order pacing by his bower,
In the loop'd wreath left each her single flower,--
Then stood aside.--What broke the scene's repose?
The whole assembly clapp'd their hands and rose.

The Muses charm'd them as they form'd a ring,
And look'd the very life and soul of Spring!
But still the white hair'd dame they view'd with pride,
Her love so perfect, and her truth so tried.
Oh, sweet it is to hear, to see, to name,
Unquench'd affection in the palsied frame--
To think upon the boundless raptures past,
And love, triumphant, conquering to the last!

Silenced by feeling, vanquish'd by his tears,
The host sprung up, nor felt the weight of years;
Yet utterance found not, though in virtue's cause,
But acclamations fill'd up nature's pause,
Till, by one last and vigorous essay,
His tide of feeling roll'd itself away;
The language of delight its bondage broke,
And many a warm heart bless'd him as he spoke.

"Neighbours and friends, by long experience proved,
"Pardon this weakness; I was too much moved:
"My dame, you see, can youth and age insnare,
"In vain I strove, 'twas more than I could bear,--
"Yet hear me,--though the tyrant passions strive,
"The words of truth, like leading stars, survive;
"I thank you all, but will accomplish more--
"Your verses shall not die as heretofore;
"Your local tales shall not be thrown away,
"Nor war remain the theme of every lay.
"Ours is an humbler task, that may release
"The