--A feast shall bring
"A crowd of merry faces in the spring;--
"Here, pens, boy, pens; I'll weigh the case no more,
"But write the summons:--go, go, shut the door.
"'All ye on Oakly manor dwelling,
'Farming, labouring, buying, selling,
'Neighbours! banish gloomy looks,
'My grey old steward shuts his books.
'Let not a thought of winter's rent
'Destroy one evening's merriment;
'I ask not gold, but tribute found
'Abundant on Parnassian ground.
'Choose, ye who boast the gift, your themes
'Of joy or pathos, tales or dreams,
'Choose each a theme;--but, harkye, bring
'No stupid ghost, no vulgar thing;
'Fairies, indeed, may wind their way,
'And sparkle through the brightest lay:
'I love their pranks, their favourite green,
'And, could the little sprites be seen,
'Were I a king, I'd sport with them,
'And dance beneath my diadem.
'But surely fancy need not brood
'O'er midnight darkness, crimes, and blood,
'In magic cave or monk's retreat,
'Whilst the bright world is at her feet;
'Whilst to her boundless range is given,
'By night, by day, the lights of heaven,
'And all they shine upon; whilst Love
'Still reigns the monarch of the grove,
'And real life before her lies
'In all its thousand, thousand dies.
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