May Day with the Muses Part 3

Who arrogate that gift of heaven?

To wild herds when they bellow loud, To all the forest-tribes 'tis given.

I've heard a note from dale or hill That lifted every head and eye; I've heard a scream aloft, so shrill That terror seized on all that fly.

Empires may fall, and nations groan, Pride be thrown down, and power decay; Dark bigotry may rear her throne, But science is the light of day.

Yet, while so low my lot is cast, Through wilds and forests let me range; My joys shall pomp and power outlast-- The voice of nature cannot change.

A soberer feeling through the crowd he flung, Clermont was uppermost on every tongue; But who can live on unavailing sighs?

The inconsolable are not the wise.

Spirit, and youth, and worth, demand a tear-- That day was past, and sorrow was not here; Sorrow the contest dared not but refuse 'Gainst Oakly's open cellar and the muse.

Sir Ambrose cast his eye along the line, Where many a cheerful face began to shine, And, fixing on his man, cried, loud and clear, "What have you brought, John Armstrong? let us hear."

Forth stepp'd his shepherd;--scanty locks of grey Edged round a hat that seem'd to mock decay; Its loops, its bands, were from the purest fleece, Spun on the hills in silence and in peace.

A staff he bore carved round with birds and flowers, The hieroglyphics of his leisure hours; And rough form'd animals of various name, Not just like BEWICK'S, but they meant the same.

Nor these alone his whole attention drew, He was a poet,--this Sir Ambrose knew,-- A strange one too;--and now had penn'd a lay, Harmless and wild, and fitting for the day.

No tragic tale on stilts;--his mind had more Of boundless frolic than of serious lore;-- Down went his hat, his s.h.a.ggy friend close by Dozed on the gra.s.s, yet watch'd his master's eye.

THE SHEPHERD'S DREAM:

OR, FAIRIES' MASQUERADE.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE SHEPHERD'S DREAM: OR, FAIRIES' MASQUERADE.

I had folded my flock, and my heart was o'erflowing, I loiter'd beside the small lake on the heath; The red sun, though down, left his drapery glowing, And no sound was stirring, I heard not a breath: I sat on the turf, but I meant not to sleep, And gazed o'er that lake which for ever is new, Where clouds over clouds appear'd anxious to peep From this bright double sky with its pearl and its blue.

Forgetfulness, rather than slumber, it seem'd, When in infinite thousands the fairies arose All over the heath, and their tiny crests gleam'd In mock'ry of soldiers, our friends and our foes.

There a stripling went forth, half a finger's length high, And led a huge host to the north with a dash; Silver birds upon poles went before their wild cry, While the monarch look'd forward, adjusting his sash.

Soon after a terrible bonfire was seen, The dwellings of fairies went down in their ire, But from all I remember, I never could glean Why the woodstack was burnt, or who set it on fire.

The flames seem'd to rise o'er a deluge of snow, That buried its thousands,--the rest ran away; For the hero had here overstrain'd his long bow, Yet he honestly own'd the mishap of the day.

Then the fays of the north like a hailstorm came on, And follow'd him down to the lake in a riot, Where they found a large stone which they fix'd him upon, And threaten'd, and coax'd him, and bade him be quiet.

He that couquer'd them all, was to conquer no more, But the million beheld he could conquer alone; After resting awhile, he leap'd boldly on sh.o.r.e, When away ran a fay that had mounted his throne.

'Twas pleasant to see how they stared, how they scamper'd, By furze-bush, by fern, by no obstacle stay'd, And the few that held council, were terribly hamper'd, For some were vindictive, and some were afraid.

I saw they were dress'd for a masquerade train, Colour'd rags upon sticks they all brandish'd in view, And of such idle things they seem'd mightily vain, Though they nothing display'd but a bird split in two.

Then out rush'd the stripling in battle array, And both sides determined to fight and to maul: Death rattled his jawbones to see such a fray, And glory personified laugh'd at them all.

Here he fail'd,--hence he fled, with a few for his sake, And leap'd into a c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.l floating hard by; It sail'd to an isle in the midst of the lake, Where they mock'd fallen greatness, and left him to die.

Meanwhile the north fairies stood round in a ring, Supporting his rival on guns and on spears, Who, though not a soldier, was robed like a king; Yet some were exulting, and some were in tears.

A lily triumphantly floated above, The crowd press'd, and wrangling was heard through the whole; Some soldiers look'd surly, some citizens strove To hoist the old nightcap on liberty's pole.

But methought in my dream some bewail'd him that fell, And liked not his victors so gallant, so clever, Till a fairy stepp'd forward, and blew through a sh.e.l.l, "Bear misfortune with firmness, you'll triumph for ever."

I woke at the sound, all in silence, alone, The moor-hens were floating like specks on a gla.s.s, The dun clouds were spreading, the vision was gone, And my dog scamper'd round 'midst the dew on the gra.s.s.

I took up my staff, as a knight would his lance, And said, "Here 's my sceptre, my baton, my spear, And there's my prime minister far in advance, Who serves me with truth for his food by the year."

So I slept without care till the dawning of day, Then trimm'd up my woodbines and whistled amain; My minister heard as he bounded away, And we led forth our sheep to their pastures again.

Scorch'd by the shadeless sun on Indian plains, Mellow'd by age, by wants, and toils, and pains, Those toils still lengthen'd when he reach'd that sh.o.r.e Where Spain's bright mountains heard the cannons roar, A pension'd veteran, doom'd no more to roam, With glowing heart thus sung the joys of home.

THE SOLDIER'S HOME.

[Ill.u.s.tration.]

THE SOLDIER'S HOME.

My untried muse shall no high tone a.s.sume, Nor strut in arms;--farewell my cap and plume: Brief be my verse, a task within my power, I tell my feelings in one happy hour; But what an hour was that! when from the main I reach'd this lovely valley once again!

A glorious harvest fill'd my eager sight, Half shock'd, half waving in a flood of light; On that poor cottage roof where I was born The sun look'd down as in life's early morn.

I gazed around, but not a soul appear'd, I listen'd on the threshold, nothing heard; I call'd my father thrice, but no one came; It was not fear or grief that shook my frame, But an o'erpowering sense of peace and home, Of toils gone by, perhaps of joys to come.

The door invitingly stood open wide, I shook my dust, and set my staff aside.

How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air, And take possession of my father's chair!

Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame, Appear'd the rough initials of my name, Cut forty years before!--the same old clock Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock I never can forget. A short breeze sprung, And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue, Caught the old dangling almanacks behind, And up they flew, like banners in the wind; Then gently, singly, down, down, down, they went, And told of twenty years that I had spent Far from my native land:--that instant came A robin on the threshold; though so tame, At first he look'd distrustful, almost shy, And cast on me his coal-black stedfast eye, And seem'd to say (past friendship to renew) "Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?"

Through the room ranged the imprison'd humble bee, And bomb'd, and bounced, and straggled to be free, Dashing against the panes with sullen roar, That threw their diamond sunlight on the floor; That floor, clean sanded, where my fancy stray'd O'er undulating waves the broom had made, Reminding me of those of hideous forms That met us as we pa.s.s'd the _Cape of Storms_, Where high and loud they break, and peace comes never; They roll and foam, and roll and foam for ever.

But _here_ was peace, that peace which home can yield; The gra.s.shopper, the partridge in the field, And ticking clock, were all at once become The subst.i.tutes for clarion, fife, and drum.

While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still On beds of moss that spread the window sill, I deem'd no moss my eyes had ever seen Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green, And guess'd some infant hand had placed it there, And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare.

Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose, My heart felt every thing but calm repose; I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years, But rose at once, and bursted into tears; Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again, And thought upon the past with shame and pain; I raved at war and all its horrid cost, And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost.

On carnage, fire, and plunder, long I mused, And cursed the murdering weapons I had used.

Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard, One bespoke age, and one a child's appear'd.-- In stepp'd my father with convulsive start, And in an instant clasp'd me to his heart.

Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid, And, stooping to the child, the old man said, "Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again, This is your uncle Charles, come home from Spain."

The child approach'd, and with her fingers light, Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight.-- But why thus spin my tale, thus tedious be?

Happy old Soldier! what's the world to me?

Change is essential to the youthful heart, It cannot bound, it cannot act its part To one monotonous delight a slave; E'en the proud poet's lines become its grave: By innate buoyancy, by pa.s.sion led, It acts instinctively, it will be fed.

A troop of country la.s.ses paced the green, Tired of their seats, and anxious to be seen; They pa.s.s'd Sir Ambrose, turn'd, and pa.s.s'd again, Some lightly tripp'd, to make their meaning plain: The old man knew it well, the thoughts of youth Came o'er his mind like consciousness of truth, Or like a sunbeam through a lowering sky, It gave him youth again, and ecstacy; He joy'd to see them in this favourite spot, Who of fourscore, or fifty score, would not?

He wink'd, he nodded, and then raised his hand,-- 'Twas seen and answer'd by the Oakly band.

Forth leap'd the light of heart and light of heel, E'en stiff limb'd age the kindling joy could feel.

They form'd, while yet the music started light; The gra.s.s beneath their feet was short and bright, Where thirty couple danced with all their might.

The Forester caught la.s.ses one by one, And twirl'd his glossy green against the sun; The Shepherd threw his doublet on the ground, And clapp'd his hands, and many a partner found: His hat-loops bursted in the jocund fray, And floated o'er his head like blooming May.

Behind his heels his dog was barking loud, And threading all the mazes of the crowd; And had he boasted one had wagg'd his tail, And plainly said, "What can my master ail?"

To which the Shepherd, had he been more cool, Had only said, "'Tis Oakly feast, you fool."

But where was Philip, he who danced so well?

Had he retired, had pleasure broke her spell?

No, he had yielded to a tend'rer bond, He sat beside his own sick Rosamond, Whose illness long deferr'd their wedding hour; She wept, and seem'd a lily in a shower; She wept to see him 'midst a crowd so gay, For her sake lose the honours of the day.

But could a gentle youth be so unkind?