Sir Ambrose loved the Muses, and would pay Due honours even to the ploughman's lay; Would cheer the feebler bard, and with the strong Soar to the noblest energies of song; Catch the rib-shaking laugh, or from his eye Dash silently the tear of sympathy. Happy old man!--with feelings such as these The seasons all can charm, and trifles please; And hence a sudden thought, a new-born whim, Would shake his cup of pleasure to the brim, Turn scoffs and doubts and obstacles aside, And instant action follow like a tide. Time past, he had on his paternal ground With pride the latent sparks of genius found In many a local ballad, many a tale, As wild and brief as cowslips in the dale, Though unrecorded as the gleams of light That vanish in the quietness of night "Why not," he cried, as from his couch he rose, "To cheer my age, and sweeten my repose, "Why not be just and generous in time, "And bid my tenants pay their rents in rhyme? "For one half year they shall.--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. 'Then bring me nature, bring me sense, 'And joy shall be your recompense: 'On Old May-day I hope to see 'All happy:--leave the rest to me. 'A general feast shall cheer us all 'Upon the lawn that fronts the hall, 'With tents for shelter, laurel boughs 'And wreaths of every flower that blows. 'The months are wending fast away; 'Farewell,--remember Old May-day.'"