May Day with the Muses Part 2

A general scream the miller heard, Then rubb'd his eyes and ran, And soon his welcome light appear'd, As grumbling he began:--

"What have we here, and whereabouts?

"Why what a hideous squall!

"Some drunken fool! I thought as much-- "'Tis only Andrew Hall!

"Poor children!" tenderly he said, "But now the danger's past."

They thank'd him for his light and aid, And drew near home at last.

But who upon the misty path To meet them forward press'd?

'Twas Ellen, shivering, with a babe Close folded to her breast.

Said Andrew, "Now you're glad, I know, "To se-se-see us come;-- "But I have taken care of both, "And brought them bo-bo-both safe home."

With Andrew vex'd, of Mary proud, But prouder of her boy, She kiss'd them both, and sobb'd aloud,-- The children cried for joy.

But what a home at last they found!

Of comforts all bereft; The fire out, the last candle gone, And not one penny left!

But Caleb quick as light'ning flew, And raised a light instead; And as the kindling brands he blew, His father snored in bed.

No brawling, boxing termagant Was Ellen, though offended; Who ever knew a fault like this By violence amended?

No:--she was mild as April morn, And Andrew loved her too; She rose at daybreak, though forlorn, To try what love could do.

And as her waking husband groan'd, And roll'd his burning head, She spoke with all the power of truth, Down kneeling by his bed.

"Dear Andrew, hear me,--though distress'd "Almost too much to speak,-- "This infant starves upon my breast-- "To scold I am too weak.

"I work, I spin, I toil all day, "Then leave my work to cry, "And start with horror when I think "You wish to see me die.

"But _do_ you wish it? can that bring "More comfort, or more joy?

"Look round the house, how dest.i.tute!

"Look at your ragged boy!

"That boy should make a father proud, "If any feeling can; "Then save your children, save your wife, "Your honour as a man.

"Hear me, for G.o.d's sake hear me now, "And act a father's part!"

The culprit bless'd her angel tongue, And clasp'd her to his heart;

And would have vow'd, and would have sworn, But Ellen kiss'd him dumb,-- "Exert your mind, vow to _yourself_, "And better days will come.

"I shall be well when you are kind, "And you'll be better too."-- "I'll drink no more,"--he quick rejoin'd,-- "Be't poison if I do."

From that bright day his plants, his flowers, His crops began to thrive, And for three years has Andrew been The soberest man alive.

Soon as he ended, acclamations 'rose, Endang'ring modesty and self-repose, Till the good host his prudent counsel gave, Then listen'd all, the flippant and the grave.

"Let not applauses vanity inspire, "Deter humility, or damp desire; "Neighbours we are, then let the stream run fair, "And every couplet be as free as air; "Be silent when each speaker claims his right, "Enjoy the day as I enjoy the sight: "They shall not cla.s.s us with the knavish elves, "Who banish shame, and criticise themselves."

Thenceforward converse flow'd with perfect ease, Midst country wit, and rustic repartees.

One drank to Ellen, if such might be found, And archly glanced at female faces round.

If one with tilted can began to bawl, Another cried, "Remember Andrew Hall."

Then, multifarious topics, corn and hay, Vestry intrigues, the rates they had to pay, The thriving stock, the lands too wet, too dry, And all that bears on fruitful husbandry, Ran mingling through the crowd--a crowd that might, Transferr'd to canvas, give the world delight; A scene that WILKIE might have touch'd with pride-- The May-day banquet then had never died.

But who is he, uprisen, with eye so keen, In garb of shining plush of gra.s.sy green-- Dogs climbing round him, eager for the start, With ceaseless tail, and doubly beating heart?

A stranger, who from distant forests came, The st.u.r.dy keeper of the Oakly game.

Short prelude made, he pointed o'er the hill, And raised a voice that every ear might fill; His heart was in his theme, and in the forest still.

THE FORESTER.

[Ill.u.s.tration.]

THE FORESTER.

Born in a dark wood's lonely dell, Where echoes roar'd, and tendrils curl'd Round a low cot, like hermit's cell, Old Salcey Forest was my world.

I felt no bonds, no shackles then, For life in freedom was begun; I gloried in th' exploits of men, And learn'd to lift my father's gun.

O what a joy it gave my heart!

Wild as a woodbine up I grew; Soon in his feats I bore a part, And counted all the game he slew.

I learn'd the wiles, the shifts, the calls, The language of each living thing; I mark'd the hawk that darting falls, Or station'd spreads the trembling wing.

I mark'd the owl that silent flits, The hare that feeds at eventide, The upright rabbit, when he sits And mocks you, ere he deigns to hide.

I heard the fox bark through the night, I saw the rooks depart at morn, I saw the wild deer dancing light, And heard the hunter's cheering horn.

Mad with delight, I roam'd around From morn to eve throughout the year, But still, midst all I sought or found, My favourites were the spotted deer.

The elegant, the branching brow, The doe's clean limbs and eyes of love; The fawn as white as mountain snow, That glanced through fern and brier and grove.

One dark, autumnal, stormy day, The gale was up in all its might, The roaring forest felt its sway, And clouds were scudding quick as light: A ruthless crash, a hollow groan, Aroused each self-preserving start, The kine in herds, the hare alone, And s.h.a.gged colts that grazed apart.

Midst fears instinctive, wonder drew The boldest forward, gathering strength As darkness lour'd, and whirlwinds blew, To where the ruin stretch'd his length.

The shadowing oak, the n.o.blest stem That graced the forest's ample bound, Had cast to earth his diadem; His fractured limbs had delved the ground.

He lay, and still to fancy groan'd; He lay like Alfred when he died-- Alfred, a king by Heaven enthroned, His age's wonder, England's pride!

Monarch of forests, great as good, Wise as the sage,--thou heart of steel!

Thy name shall rouse the patriot's blood As long as England's sons can feel.

From every lawn, and copse, and glade, The timid deer in squadrons came, And circled round their fallen shade With all of language but its name.

Astonishment and dread withheld The fawn and doe of tender years, But soon a triple circle swell'd, With rattling horns and twinkling ears.

Some in his root's deep cavern housed, And seem'd to learn, and muse, and teach, Or on his topmost foliage browsed, That had for centuries mock'd their reach.

Winds in their wrath these limbs could crash, This strength, this symmetry could mar; A people's wrath can monarchs dash From bigot throne or purple car.

When Fate's dread bolt in Clermont's bowers Provoked its million tears and sighs, A nation wept its fallen flowers, Its blighted hopes, its darling prize.-- So mourn'd my antler'd friends awhile, So dark, so dread, the fateful day; So mourn'd the herd that knew no guile, Then turn'd disconsolate away!

Who then of language will be proud?