Made up of whitethorn neatly interwove, Can such delights be in the street And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; There's not a budding boy or girl this day . And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth, And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: Many a kiss, both odd and even; Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks picked; yet we're not a Maying! Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty: So when or you or I are made Lies drowned with us in endless night; HERRICK. THE HAY FIELD. THY joys, gay spirit of the social plain, And sings the artless pleasures of the mead. Now is it June's bright morn, and Beauty twines The glowing wreaths that deck her thousand shrines; On the lark's wing sweet music hails the day, Her nut-brown tresses wanton on the gale; The cow stands duteous by the cleanly pail, head, Sweep their bright sithes along the shiver'd mead. Three blithesome maids the grassy treasure shake; Three draw, with gentle hand, the thrifty rake; And three, mid carol sweet, and jocund tale, Scatter the breathing verdure to the gale. Where yonder cottages' ascending smoke, In spiral columns, wreaths the sun-gilt oak, The careful parents of the village dwell, And mix the savoury pottage in the cell; Their little rosy girls and boys prepare The steaming breakfast through the vale to bear. See, with pleased looks, gay Ceres' happy train Watch their young donors, loaded on the plain; Inhale the grateful fumes that round them rise, Mark their slow heedful step and earnest eyes; The chubby hands, that grasp the circling rim, Where health's warm viand rises to the brim. Light on the violet bank recline the band, And take the present from the willing hand. With eager appetite, and poignant taste, Thank the kind bearers, and enjoy the feast. Yon tall, white spire, that rises mid the trees, Courting, with golden vane, the passing breeze, A peal, far heard, sends merry down the dale, The notes of triumph tell a bridal tale. The hallow'd green sod the swift river laves, Our youthful lovers hail the harmonious noise, May equal bliss the varying year adorn, And gild the labours of each future morn; Whether the wanton hours, that lead the spring, Catch the translucent raindrops from her wing; Or zoneless summer, flaunting o'er the meads, Empurpled bloom, and richest fragrance sheds; Or auburn autumn, from her full lap throws The mellow fruits upon the bending boughs; Or winter, with his dark relentless train, Wind, snow, and sleet, shall desolate the plain, Howl o'er the hill, and, as the river raves, In drear stagnation warp the' arrested waves. Yes, may the days of bloom and ripeness find May balmy Comfort, with assuasive powers, crown, ANNA SEWARD. THE HOCK CART*; OR, Harvest Home. COME, Sons of summer; by whose toil By whose tough labours, and rough hands, The hock cart means the rejoicing cart, or that which brings home the last load of corn, terminating the harvest. Hock-tide, or heag-tide, signifying high tide, the height or noon of merriment (from heag or heah, Saxon, high), was a festivity annually observed by the English, in commemoration of the death of Hardicanute in 1042, which delivered them from the Danish yoke. All landlords were used to receive from their tenants annually a certain fine called Hock Tuesday money, for allowing them to keep this holiday, which took place on the Tuesday after Easter week. It answers to the Fugalia of the Romans, feasts celebrating the expulsion of their kings. |