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Bloomfield, Robert, 1766-1823

"May Day with the Muses"


"This morning, Jennet, why did you delay,
"And talk to that strange clown upon your way,
"Our homespun gardener? how can you bear
"His screech-owl tones upon your perfect ear?
"I cannot like that man, yet know not why,
"He's surely quite as old again as I;
"He's ignorant, and cannot be your choice,
"And ugly too, I'm certain, by his voice,
"Besides, he call'd you pretty."--"Well, what then?
"I cannot hide my face from all the men;
"Alfred, indeed, indeed, you are deceived,
"He never spoke a word that I believed;
"Nay, can he think that I would leave a home
"Full of enjoyment, present, and to come,
"While your dear mother's favours daily prove
"How sweet the bonds of gratitude and love?
"No, while beneath her roof I shall remain,
"I'll never vex you, never give you pain."
"Enough, my life," he cried, and up they sprung;
By Heaven, I almost wish'd that I was young;
It was a dainty sight to see them pass,
Light as the July fawns upon the grass,
Pure as the breath of spring when forth it spreads,
Love in their hearts, and sunshine on their heads.
Next day I felt what I was bound to do,
To weigh the adventure well, and tell it too;
For Alfred's mother must not be beguiled,
He was her earthly hope, her only child;
I had no wish, no right to pass it by,
It might bring grief, perhaps calamity.


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