But kept it up o'er wassail cup around the Christmas
When fields were dight with blossoms white, and leaves
The May-pole rear'd its flow'ry head, and dancing round
A youthful band, join'd hand in hand, with shoon and
And softly rose the melody of Flora's morning hymn.
Her garlands, too, of varied hue the merry milkmaid
And Jack the Piper caprioled within his dancing grove;
Will, Friar Tuck, and Little John, with Robin Hood
Bold foresters! blythe choristers! made vale and moun
On every spray blooms lovely May, and balmy zephyrs
Ethereal splendour all above! and beauty all beneath!
The cuckoo's song the woods among sounds sweetly as of
As bright and warm the sunbeams shine,--and why
* This ballad has been set to very beautiful music by Mr. N. I. Sporle. It is published by T. E. Purday, 50, St. Paul's Church Yard.
“A sad theme to a merry tune! But had not May _another_ holiday maker? when the compassionate Mrs. Montague walked forth from her hall and bower to greet with a smile of welcome her grotesque visitor, the poor little sweep.”
Thy hand, Eugenio, for those gentle words! _Elia_ would have taken thee to his heart. Be the turf that lies lightly on his breast as verdant as the bank whereon we sit. On a cold, dark, wintry morning, he had too often been disturbed out of a peaceful slumber by his shrill, mournful cry; and contrasting his own warm bed of down with the hard pallet from which the sooty little chorister had been driven at that untimely hour, he vented his generous indignation; and when a heart so tender as _Elia's_ could feel indignation, bitter must have been the provocation and the crime! But the sweep, with his brilliant white teeth, and Sunday washed face, is for the most part a cheerful, healthy-looking being. Not so the squalid, decrepit _factory lad_, broken-spirited, overworked, and half-starved! The little sweep, in process of time, may become a master “chum-mie,” and have (without being obliged to sweep it,) a chimney of his own: but the factory lad sees no prospect of ever emerging from his heart-sickening toil and hopeless dependance; he feels the curse of Cain press heavily upon him. The little sweep has his merry May-day, with its jigs, rough music, gingling money-box, gilt-paper cocked-hat, and gay patchwork paraphernalia. All days are alike to the factory lad,--“E'en Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to him.” _His_ rest will be the Sabbath of the tomb!