Nine ruddy lasses follow'd where she stepp'd;White were their virgin robes, that lightly sweptThe downy grass; in every laughing eyeCupid 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 boundTheir 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 throneWhere, 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 high-wrought soul, and mould it into peace."These pastoral notes some victor's ear may fill,"Breathed amidst blossoms, where the drum is still:"I purpose then to send them forth to try"The public patience, or its apathy."The world shall see them; why should I refrain?"'Tis all the produce of my own domain."Farewell!" he said, then took his lady's arm,On his shrunk hand her starting tears fell warm;Again he turn'd to view the happy crowd,And cried, "Good night, good night, good night," aloud,"Health to you all! for see, the evening closes,"Then march'd to rest, beneath his crown of roses."Happy old man! with feelings such as these,"The seasons all can charm, and trifles please."An instantaneous shout re-echoed round,'Twas wine and gratitude inspired the sound:Some joyous souls resumed the dance again,The aged loiter'd o'er the homeward plain,And scatter'd lovers rambled through the park,And breathed their vows of honour in the dark;Others a festal harmony preferr'd,Still round the thorn the jovial song was heard;Dance, rhymes, and fame, they scorn'd such things as these,But drain'd the mouldy barrel to its lees,As if 'twere worse than shame to want repose:Nor was the lawn clear till the moon arose,And on each turret pour'd a brilliant gleamOf modest light, that trembled on the stream;The owl awoke, but dared not yet complain,And banish'd silence re-assumed her reign.
End of Project Gutenberg's May Day with the Muses, by Robert Bloomfield