The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince :: :: University of Virginia Library

Blest be this bright and breezy May,
Which smiles away my sorrow!
I'll snatch a harmless joy to-day,
Though troubles come to-morrow.
Who would not breathe this generous air,
Which meaner things delight in?—
Who would not Nature's banquet share,
Her own sweet self inviting?

Come forth, my Friend, of kindred mind,
My friend in every weather,—
Leave Mammon's ledger-lore behind,
And let us stray together;
Come forth in quest of liberty,
Nor think of looms and spindles;
There's Health, Peace, Beauty, Poesy,
'Mong mountain-streams and rindles.

“Man liveth not by bread alone!”
Truth from a Source transcendent;—
His soul asks something of its own,
Less gross, and less dependent;
It claims the privilege of Thought
Beyond the dusty Real,
Its hopeful visions, called and caught
From realms of the Ideal.

And genial Nature's humblest things,
In wintry garb or vernal,
Can lend Man's longing spirit wings
To reach some sphere supernal;—
A rose-bush shivering 'gainst the sky,—
A weed of beauteous seeming,—
A dew-drop in a cowslip's eye,
With trembling lustre beaming.

Many the motives and the means
Wherewith God deigns to gift us,
That unto higher, holier scenes,
In thoughtful hours uplift us;
And it is good to break away
From the cold world's harsh laughter,
And soar into a purer day,—
The shadow of Hereafter!

Joy! my dear friend! at length we're out,
Away from crowds and clamours,
From all the rumbling and the rout
Of engines, looms, and hammers;
The mountains rise upon our sight,
Breathing of pleasant places;
We'll feel, ere day drops into night,
Their grandeurs and their graces.

Here daisies greet us as we pass,
In constellated grouping;
And the sweet face of country lass
Flits by, with eyelids drooping;
And wild-wood odours come and go,
As the swart hills draw nearer;
And in a warmer current flow
Our fancies, quick and clearer.

And here's the pathway rent and rude,
The threshold of the mountains,—
And now we're in the solitude
Of mosses, rocks, and fountains;
There's Haridge, towering up to meet
The sunlit clouds above him;
And here's the streamlet at his feet,
Whose waters seem to love him.

How like a strong and sportive child
This hill-born runnel rushes,—
Now foaming, frolicsome, and wild,
With frantic leaps and gushes;
Now in a sort of murmuring dream
Through reed and grass it wimples,—
Anon in Day's unclouded beam
Laughs with a thousand dimples.

Stream, thou art nameless, or thy name
But ill becomes thy beauty;
I fain would make thee known to fame,
As is thy Poet's duty;
I'll christen thee with tongue and pen,
Henceforth let none defame thee;
The Brushes is thy native glen,
And Brushlin Brook I name thee.

And now, my Friend, we'll track the wave
Far upward to its fountain,
And when we've sung a greenwood stave,
We'll dare that haughty mountain;
The lark that thrills yon snowy cloud,—
The thrush that sings before us,—
The cuckoo calling sweet and loud,
Will join us in the chorus.

'Tis done! now upward with strong will,—
No yielding,—no surrender,—
Up to the top, that we may fill
Our souls with May-day splendour.
'Tis toilsome! Yes! but let us try
With sturdy stride together;—
The thing's achieved! albeit we lie
Panting among the heather.

Dear Heaven! what glory swathes the land!
What harmony of feature!
Scattered abroad from God's own hand,
O'er the great face of Nature!
What amplitude of cloudless space!
What mingled hues and gleamings!
What grandeur, softened down with grace,
And in one's soul what dreamings!

Oh! for a page of Wordsworth now,—
Him the great Master-Preacher!
Would we could look upon his face,
And hear the Poet-Teacher!
Hear him relate his wondrous lays,
Sprung from his heart's deep fountains,
Of wisdom, 'mid untrodden ways
Among the solemn mountains.

But since we may not see the Bard,
Let's think upon his glory,—
His high, calm genius, whose reward
Is life in future story;
Oh! when he joins a nobler quire,
To sing still more divinely,
Who shall assume his earthly lyre,
And make it speak so finely?

Alas! our chiefest Bards are old!
Hushed are their tuneful voices;
But at the tales which they have told
Each kindred heart rejoices.
When the five stars we love are gone,
How will their going grieve us!
Canst thou, large-gifted Tennyson,
Console us when they leave us?

Canst thou, soul-soaring “Festus,” sing,
To soothe our great bereavement?
Canst thou, quaint Browning, solace bring
By any new achievement?
Can ye, with power that knows no fear,
Re-wake one harp that slumbers?—
We hope, and wait, and long to hear
Your yet unuttered numbers.

A truce to this old theme, my Friend,
Our spirits grow regretful;
To talk of what we cannot mend
But makes us sad and fretful;
Though Song is something half divine,
With which 'tis sweet to dally,
'Tis bright May-Day, and we must dine,—
Descend we to the valley.

Ah! here's a table for our meal!
Its cover green and golden;
To Him who made it let us feel
How much we are beholden!
The shadows of these waving boughs
Across our faces flitter,
And there a tinkling fountain flows,
Falling with silvery glitter.

This lovely scene and mountain air
Are better, there's no question,
Than costly room and dainty fare,
With spleen and indigestion;
And we have music far more sweet
Than Jullien ever found us,—
The brook that babbles at our feet,
The birds that carol round us.

Commence the banquet, and partake
With gusto keen and hearty;
Now pass the beaker;—don't we make
A most congenial party?
Thanks to the Giver! We have done;
But ere we cross the meadows,
Let us escape the noontide sun,
Within these sylvan shadows.

Sing me some old and simple lay,
Such as I've heard ye humming,
Or chant me of that doubtful day,—
The very “good time coming;”
But since your pipe is out of tune,
I'll e'en for once take pity,
And break the drowsy hush of Noon
With my own foolish ditty:—

SONG.

When golden-haired Sol to the Seasons gave birth,
And saw that his plan was complete,
He told them to govern and gladden the Earth
With interchange needful and sweet;
He marshalled before him the Months and the Hours,
But ere he dismissed them away,
He called unto Flora, the Goddess of Flowers,
And beckoned his favourite May.

“Dear Flora, I pray thee, bestow on my child
Some beautiful gifts of thine own;
I have lent to her countenance light undefiled,
To her voice a most musical tone;
Besprinkle her garments with dews and perfumes,
That shall follow her footsteps alway,
And give her a girdle of exquisite blooms,
Becoming my favourite May.”

She alighted on Earth, and the valley and plain
Were flushed with her glorious hues;
The bees clung about her; the breezes were fain
Her magical sweets to diffuse;
When the Poet beheld her, at once she became
The theme of his loveliest lay;
Since then she is linked with his heart and his fame,
For the month of the Poet is May.

She awoke in the souls of susceptible Youth
New fires, which all others surpass;
Touched the lips of the Wooer with tenderest truth,
With blushes the cheek of the Lass;
In her presence their glances grew bashful, but bright,
Their faces unwontedly gay,
Or grave with a deep and unuttered delight,
For the month of the Lover is May.

Then hail to this Child of Apollo! her smile
Makes Nature laugh out and rejoice;
And the proud heart of Man, growing gentler the while,
Leaps up at the sound of her voice;
She comes like a breath from those gardens above,
Which know neither cloud nor decay,
She bringeth us Poësy, Beauty, and Love,—
What a season of joyance is May!

So ends my descant. Now we'll pass
Through yon romantic wild-wood,
And pull some flowers from out the grass,
To grace the brows of Childhood.

How silent is this bowery way!
The air how sweet and cooling!
Here Jaques might love to shun the day,
And Touchstone act his fooling.

Now we emerge upon the leas,
With floral splendour glowing;
The meadows swell like golden seas,
The breeze is richly blowing;
Alternate glooms, alternate gleams,
O'er hill and vale flit lightly,—
Now a full burst of sunny beams
Blends the whole landscape brightly.

Here's the old bridge, and here's the Tame,
Which seems to glide at leisure;
And here's the way this morn we came,
In search of health and pleasure.
Fresh from the hills, yon murky town
Seems to oppress and blind us,
While the dear woods and moorlands brown
Lie calm and fair behind us.

A puff of steam,—three minutes' space,—
Some clangour, and a scramble,
And we are in our dwelling-place,
Pleased with our Mountain Ramble;
The plant of “old Cathay” shall make
A draught both safe and cheery,
And we will talk as we partake,
Forgetting we are weary.

Rising on Thought's aspiring wing,
We'll talk of Bards and Sages,
Of every pure and precious thing
We've found among their pages;

Of past misdeeds, of present needs,
Of future generations,
And what the age we live in breeds
For the great good of nations.

Science, Philosophy, and Song,
We'll touch, without pretension;
Of what seems right, of what seems wrong,
Converse without dissension;
Thought should be wide and free as air,
Impatient of restriction,—
Free be the words, if they are fair,
And pregnant with conviction.

Thus will we wing the evening hours,
Knowledge with Pleasure blending,—
A May-Day passed 'mid fields and flowers
Should have no foolish ending.
Then to our pillows we will creep,
Mindful of morrow's duties,
And find the visions of our sleep
Clothed with a thousand beauties.

Brushes, the name of the locality.

Wordsworth, Moore, Montgomery, Rogers, and Leigh Hunt.