At length the damask cloths were whisk'd away, Like fluttering sails upon a summer's day; The hey-day of enjoyment found repose; The worthy baronet majestic rose; They view'd him, while his ale was filling round, The monarch of his own paternal ground. His cup was full, and where the blossoms bow'd Over his head, Sir Ambrose spoke aloud, Nor stopp'd a dainty form or phrase to cull-- His heart elated, like his cup, was full:-- "Full be your hopes, and rich the crops that fall; "Health to my neighbours, happiness to all." Dull must that clown be, dull as winter's sleet, Who would not instantly be on his feet: An echoing health to mingling shouts gave place, "Sir Ambrose Higham, and his noble race." Avaunt, Formality! thou bloodless dame, With dripping besom quenching nature's flame; Thou cankerworm, who liv'st but to destroy, And eat the very heart of social joy;-- Thou freezing mist round intellectual mirth, Thou spell-bound vagabond of spurious birth, Away! away! and let the sun shine clear, And all the kindnesses of life appear. With mild complacency, and smiling brow, The host look'd round, and bade the goblets flow; Yet curiously anxious to behold Who first would pay in rhymes instead of gold; Each eye inquiring through the ring was glanced To see who dared the task, who first advanced; That instant started Philip from the throng, Philip, a farmer's son, well known for song,-- And, as the mingling whispers round him ran, He humbly bow'd, and timidly began:-- THE DRUNKEN FATHER Poor Ellen married Andrew Hall, Who dwells beside the moor, Where yonder rose-tree shades the wall, And woodbines grace the door. Who does not know how blest, how loved Were her mild laughing eyes By every youth!--but Andrew proved Unworthy of his prize. In tippling was his whole delight, Each sign-post barr'd his way; He spent in muddy ale at night The wages of the day. Though Ellen still had charms, was young, And he in manhood's prime, She sad beside her cradle sung, And sigh'd away her time. One cold bleak night, the stars were hid, In vain she wish'd him home; Her children cried, half cheer'd, half chid, "O when will father come!" 'Till Caleb, nine years old, upsprung, And kick'd his stool aside, And younger Mary round him clung, "I'll go, and you shall guide." The children knew each inch of ground, Yet Ellen had her fears; Light from the lantern glimmer'd round, And show'd her falling tears. "Go by the mill and down the lane; "Return the same way home: "Perhaps you'll meet him, give him light; "O how I _wish_ he'd come." Away they went, as close and true As lovers in the shade, And Caleb swung his father's staff At every step he made. The noisy mill-clack rattled on, They saw the water flow, And leap in silvery foam along, Deep murmuring below. "We'll soon be there," the hero said, "Come on, 'tis but a mile,-- "Here's where the cricket-match was play'd, "And here's the shady stile.