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 RURAL TALES, 
 
 BALLADS, AND SONGS. 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, 
 
 Al.THOR OF 'THE FARMER S BOY, 
 
 THE TENTH EDITION. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 I'RIKTKI) FOR LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWX, AND 
 GREEK; BALDWIN, CRADOCK, AND JOY; HARVEY AND 
 DARTON ; J. booker; COWIE and LOWE; AND HA- 
 MILTON, ADAMS, AND CO. 
 
 1826.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PUINTF.n IIY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRI A RS.
 
 rn 
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Richard and Kate, a Ballad ...... 1 
 
 ^\' alter and Jane, a Tale . . . . . .15 
 
 The Sliller's 31 aid, a Tale .'{5 
 
 The Widow to her Hour-Glass . . . . .59 
 
 Mark'Jt Night, a Ballad (Wi 
 
 The Fakenham Ghost, a Ballad . . . . -71' 
 
 The French JMariner, a Ballad 7^ 
 
 DoUy, a Ballad «4 
 
 A Visit to Whittlebury Forest . . • . .31 
 
 A Highland Drover, a Song . . . . -, . UJ! 
 A Word to Two Young Ijadies . . . . .102 
 
 On hearing of the Translation of Part of ' The Farmer's 
 
 Bot' . • 105 
 
 Nancy, a Song ... ..... 10<» 
 
 Rosy Hannah, a Song ....... W.i 
 
 The Shepherd and his Dog Rover, a Song - . .111 
 
 Hunting Song 114 
 
 Lucy, a Song lid' 
 
 Winter Song . . . . . . . .111) 
 
 Peace . , . . . , . . .122 

 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The Poems here offered to the public were chiefly 
 ^vritten during the interval between the concluding 
 and the publishing of ' The Farmer's Boy/ an in- 
 terval of nearly two years. The pieces of a later 
 date are, ' The Widow to her Hour-Glass,' ' The 
 Fahenham Ghost,' ' Walter and Jane,' &c. At the 
 time of publishing the Farmer's Boy, circumstances 
 occurred which rendered it necessary to submit these 
 poems to the perusal of my friends ; under whose 
 approbation I now give them, with some contidence 
 as to their moral merit, to the judgment of the pub- 
 lic. And as they treat of village manners, and rural 
 scenes, it appears to me not ill-timed to avow, that I 
 have hopes of meeting in some degree the approba-
 
 vi PREFACE. 
 
 tion of my country- I was not prepared for the de- 
 cided, and I may surely say extraordinary, attention 
 whicli tlie Public has shown towards the Fanner's 
 I Joy : the consequence has been such as my true 
 friends will rijoice to hear : it has produced me many 
 essential blessings. And I feel peculiarly gratified 
 in finding that a poor man in England may assert 
 the dignity of Virtue, and speak of the imperishable 
 beauties of Nature, and be heard, and heard, per- 
 haps, with greater attention for his being poor. 
 
 Whoever thinks of me or my concerns must 
 necessarily indulge the pleasing idea of gratitude, 
 and join a thought of my first great friend Mr. 
 Lofft. And on this head, I believe everj^ reader, 
 who has himself any feeling, -will judge rightly of 
 mine : if otherwise, I would much rather he would 
 lay down this volume, and grasp hold of such fleet- 
 ing pleasures as the world's business may aflford 
 liini. I speak not of that gentleman as a public 
 character, or as a scholar. Of the former I know
 
 PREFACE. vii 
 
 but little, and of the latter nothing. But I know 
 from experience, and I glory in this fair opportunity 
 of saying it, that his private life is a lesson of mo- 
 rality ; his manners gentle, his heart sincere : and I 
 regard it as one of the most fortunate circumstances 
 of my life, that my introduction to public notice fell 
 to so zealous and unwearied a friend *. 
 
 I have received many honourable testimonies of 
 esteem from strangers ; letters without a name, but 
 filled with the most cordial advice, and almost a pa- 
 rental anxiety, for my safety under so great a share 
 of public applause. I beg to refer such friends to 
 the great teacher Time ; and hope that he will here- 
 after give me my deserts, and no more. 
 
 One piece in this collection will inform the reader 
 of my most pleasing visit to JVahcfield Lodge: 
 
 * I dare not take to myself a praise like this ; and yet I was, 
 perhaps, hardly at liberty to disclaim what should be mine and 
 the endeavour of every one to deserve. This I can say, that I 
 have reason to rejoice that Mr. Geoege Bloomfield intro- 
 duced ' The Farmer's Boy' to me. C. L.
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 books, solitude, and objects entirely new, brought 
 pleasiires which memory will always cherish. That 
 iioblo and worthy Family, and all my immediate 
 and unknown Friends, will, I hope, believe the sin- 
 cerity of my thanks for all their numerous favours, 
 and candidly judge of the poems before them. 
 
 R. BLOOMFIELD. 
 Sept. 29, 1801.
 
 RICHARD AND KATE ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 FAIR-DAY. 
 
 A SUFFOLK BALLAD. 
 
 ' Come, Goody, stop your humdrum wheel, 
 ' Sweep up your orts, and get your hat : 
 ' Old joys reviv'd once more I feel, 
 ' 'Tis Fair-dny; — ay, and more than that.
 
 !{K llAKl) AM) KA'IK, 
 
 The Deliberation. 
 
 II. 
 
 ' Havi' you forgot, Katk, prithee say, 
 ' Hrnv many seasons here we've tarry'd? 
 ' "Tis Furltf years this very day, 
 ' Siucr you and I, ohl Girl, were married ! 
 
 III. 
 
 • Look (Hit ; the Sun shines warm and bright, 
 ' The Stiles are low, the paths all dry ; 
 
 ' I know you cut your corns last night : 
 
 • Come ; be as free from care as I. 
 
 IV. 
 
 ' For I ni resolv'd once more to see 
 
 ' That place where we so often met ; 
 
 ' Though few have had mbre cares than we, 
 
 ' Wo 'vo none just now to make us fret.'
 
 ItlCHARD AND KATK. 
 
 V. 
 
 Kate sconi'd to damp the generous flame 
 That warm'd her aged Partner's breast : 
 Yet, ere determination came, 
 She thus some trifling doubts express'd : 
 
 VI. 
 
 ' Night will come on ; when seated snug, 
 ' And you 've perhaps begun some tale, 
 ' Can you then leave your dear stone mug ; 
 ' Leave all the folks, and all the ale ?' 
 
 VII. 
 
 ' Ay, Kate, I wool ; — because I know, 
 ' Though time has been we both could run, 
 ' Such days are gone and over now ; — 
 ' I only mean to see the fun.' 
 
 b2
 
 UKIIAUD AM) KATt. 
 
 Coniciit— Walk to the Fair. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Slie straight slipp'd off the Wall and Band*, 
 And laid aside her Lucks and Twitches* : 
 Aiul t.. tlu' Ilutclit she reach'd her hand. 
 And j;ave him uiit his Sunday Breeches. 
 
 IX. 
 
 ni> Mattock he beliind the door 
 Ami H edging-gloves again replac'd; 
 And liK)k'd across the yellow Moor, 
 And urg'd his tott'ring Spouse to haste. 
 
 X., 
 
 Till' day was up, the air serene. 
 The Firmament without a cloud ; 
 The Bee humni'd o'er the level green, 
 \\'hi'n' knots of trembling Cowslips bow'd. 
 
 • Ttrms used in spinning. f Hutch — a chest.
 
 RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 Discourse on past Days. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And Richard thus, with heart elate. 
 As past things rush'd across his mind. 
 Over his shoulder talk'd to Kate, 
 Who, snug tuckt up, walk'd slow behind. 
 
 XII. 
 
 ' When once a giggling MaAVther you, 
 ' And I a red-fac'd chubby Boy, 
 ' Sly tricks you play'd me not a few ; 
 ' For mischief was your greatest joy. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 ' Once, passing by this very Tree, 
 ' A Gotch * of Milk I 'd been to fill, 
 ' You shoulder'd me ; then laugh'd to see 
 ' Me and my Gotch spin down the Hill.' 
 
 • A pitcher.
 
 lUC IIAltl) AND KAlK 
 
 Subject continued. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 'Ti> truo,' she said; ' But here behold, 
 ' And marvel at the course of Time ; 
 ' Thotijjh you and I have both grown old, 
 ' This Tree i*only in its prime !' 
 
 XV. 
 
 ' Well, (iiK)dy, don't stand preaching now; 
 ' Folks don't preach Sermons at a Fair : 
 ' We 've rear'd Ten Boys and Girls, you know 
 ' And I '11 lio bound they'll all be there.' 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Now friendly nods and smiles had they, 
 Fntni many a kind Fair-going face: 
 And many a pinch Kate gave away, 
 \\'liilc HicHAHD kept his usual pace.
 
 RICHARD AND KATK. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 At length arriv'd amidst the throng, 
 Grand-children bawling hemm'd them round ; 
 And dragg'd them by tlie skirts along 
 Where gingerbread bestrew'd the ground. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And soon the aged couple spy'd 
 Their lusty Sons and Daughters dear : — 
 When Richard thus exulting cried, 
 ' Didn't I tell you they 'd be here?' 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The cordial greetings of the soul 
 Were visible in every face ; 
 Affection, void of all control, 
 Govern'd with a resistless grace.
 
 RICHARD AND KATP:, 
 
 Country Sports. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Twas good to st'c the honest strife, 
 ll'/iich should contribute most to please; 
 And hoar the long-recounted life, 
 t)f infant tricks, and happy days. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 J^it now, as at some nobler places. 
 Among the Leaders 'twas decreed 
 Time to begin the Dicky Races; 
 .More fam'd f(»r laughter than for speed. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Iln iiAiu) liK)kd on with wondrous glee, 
 And prais'd the Lad who chanc'd to win 
 • Katk, wa'n't I such a one as he? 
 As like him, ay, as pin to pin.
 
 RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 Subject continued. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 * Full Fifty years are pass'd away 
 ' Since I rode this same ground about ; 
 'Xord ! I was lively as the day ! 
 ' I won the High-lows out and out ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 ' I 'm surely growing young again, 
 ' I feel myself so kedge and plump : 
 ' From head to foot I 've not one pain ; 
 ' Nay, hang me, if I cou'dn't jump.' 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Thus spoke the Ale in Richard's pate, 
 A very little made him mellow ; 
 But still he lov'd his faithful Katk, 
 Who whisper'd thus, ' My good old fellow, 
 
 8.5
 
 10 inc HARD AM) KA'l'K, 
 
 The Departure. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 ' Remember what you promis'd me : 
 ' And sec, the Sun is getting low ; 
 ' The Children want an hour, ye see, 
 ' To talk a bit before we go.' 
 
 XXVII, 
 
 Liki' y<tuthful Lover most complying 
 lie turii'tl iiiid cluickt her by the chin : 
 Then all across the green grass hyeing, 
 Right merry faces, all akin. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Their farewell quart, beneath a tree 
 That dnwp'd its branches from above, 
 .Vwak'd the pure felicity 
 That waits upon Parextal Love.
 
 RICHARD AND KATE. 11 
 
 Parental and filial Feelings. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Kate view'd her bloQming Daughters round, 
 And Sons, who shook her wither'd hand : 
 Her features spoke Avhat joy she found ; 
 But utterance had made a stand. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The Children toppled on the green, 
 And bowl'd their J~airings down the hill ; 
 Richard with pride beheld the scene, 
 Nor could he for his life sit still. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 A Fathers uncheck'd feelings gave 
 
 A tenderness to all he said ; 
 
 ' My Boys, how proud am I to have 
 
 ' My name thus round the country spread !
 
 RICIIAJUJ AND KATK, 
 
 An old Man's Joy. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Through ;ill my days I 've labour'd liard, 
 And could of pains and crosses tell ; 
 Hut this is Labour's great reward, 
 To moot yo thus, and see ye well. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 .My i.'<mm1 (lid Partner, when at home. 
 Sometimes with wishes mingles tears ; 
 (Joody, says I, let what wool come, 
 W V ve nothing for them but our prav'rs. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 •May you be all as old as I, 
 And s(«o your Sons to manhood grow ; 
 And, many a time before you die. 
 He just as pleased as I am now."
 
 RICHARD AND KATE. 13 
 
 Subject continued. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Then, (raising still his Mug and Voice,) 
 ' An old Man's weakness don't despise ! 
 ' I love you well, my Girls and Boys ; 
 ' God bless you all ;' — so said his eyes 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 For as he spoke a big round drop 
 Fell, bounding on his ample sleeve ; 
 A witness which he couid not stop, 
 A witness which all hearts believe. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 Thou, Filial Piety, wert there; 
 And round the ring, benignly bright, 
 Dwelt in the luscious half-shed tear. 
 And in the parting word— Goorf Nig/if.
 
 14 UK HARD AND KATK. 
 
 The netum Home. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 With thankful IIcart.s and strengthen'd Love, 
 The ptxir old Pair, supremely blest, 
 Saw the Sun sink behind the grove. 
 And guin'd once more their lowly rest.
 
 WALTER AND JANE ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE POOR BLACKSMITH. 
 
 A COUNTRY TALE. 
 
 Bright was the summer sky, the mornings gay, 
 And Jane was young and cheerful as the Day. 
 Not yet to Love but Blirth she paid her vows ; 
 And Echo mock'd her as she call'd her Cows.
 
 U; WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 Tufts of green Broom, that full in blossom vied. 
 And grac'd with spotted gold the upland side. 
 Till' k'vel fogs o'erlook'd ; too high to share ; 
 So lovi'ly Jane o'erlook'd the clouds of Care ; 
 No meadow-flow'r rose fresher to the view. 
 That met her morning footsteps in the dew ; 
 Whore, if a nodding stranger ey'd her charms. 
 The blush of innocence was up in arms. 
 Love's random glances struck th' unguarded mind. 
 And beauty's magic made him look behind. 
 
 Duly as morning blush'd or twilight came. 
 Secure of greeting smiles and Village fame. 
 She pass'd the Straw-roofd Shed, in ranges where 
 Hung many a well-turn'd Shoe and glitt'ring Share ; 
 Whore Waltek, as the charmer tripp'd along, 
 \\'ould stop his roaring Bellows and his Song. — 
 
 I).uvn of affection ; Love's delicious sigh ! 
 Caught from the lightnings of a speaking eye.
 
 WALTER AND JANE. 17 
 
 V. 23. The Separation. 
 
 That leads the heart to rapture or to woe, 
 
 'Twas fValtcr'^ fate thy madd'ning power to know ; 
 
 And scarce to know, ere in its infant twine. 
 
 As the Blast shakes the tendrils of the Vine, 
 
 The budding bliss that full of promise grew 
 
 The chilling blight of separation knew. 
 
 Scarce had he told his heart's unquiet case. 
 
 And Jane to shun him ceas'd to mend her pace. 
 
 And learnt to listen trembling as he spoke. 
 
 And fondly judge his words beyond a joke ; 
 
 When, at the Goal that bounds our prospects liere, 
 
 Jane's widow'd IMistress ended her career : 
 
 Blessings attended her divided store. 
 
 The ^lansion sold, (Jane's peaceful home no more,) 
 
 A distant village own'd her for its Queen, 
 
 Another service, and another scene ; 
 
 But could another scene so pleasing prove, 
 
 Twelve wearv miles from Walter and from Love?
 
 IS WALTKU AND JANE. 
 
 The Lover's Journey. 
 
 Tlic Maid grew thoughtful : yet to fate resign'd. 
 Knew not the worth of what she'd left behind. 
 
 He when at eve releas'd from toil and heat, 
 S))on miss'd the smiles that taught his heart to beat. 
 Each Sabbath-day of late was wont to prove 
 Hope's liberal feast, the holiday of Love . 
 But now, upon his spirit's ebbing strength 
 Came each dull hour's intolerable length. 
 The next had scarcely dawn'd when Walter hied 
 O'er hill and dale. Affection for his guide ; 
 O'er the brown Heath his pathless journey lay, 
 ^^'^llere screaming Lapwings hail'd the op'ning day. 
 High rose the Sun, the anxious lover sigh'd ; 
 His slipp'fy soles bespoke the dew was dried; 
 Her last farewell hung fondly on his tongue 
 As o'er the tufted Furze elate he sprung ; 
 Trifling impediments ; his heart was light. 
 For Love and Beauty glow'd in Fancy's sight ;
 
 WALTKll AND JANE. 19 
 
 And soon he gaz'd on Jank's enchanting face, 
 
 Renew'd his passion, — but destroy'd his peace. 
 
 Truth, at whose shrine he bow'd, inflicted pain ; 
 
 And Conscience whisper'd, " never come again." 
 
 For now, his tide of gladness to oppose, 
 
 A clay-cold damp of doubts and fears arose ; 
 
 Clouds, which involve, midst Love and Reason's strife. 
 
 The poor man's prospect when he takes a wife. 
 
 Though gay his journeys in the Summer's prime. 
 
 Each seem'd the repetition of a crime ; 
 
 lie never left her but with many a sigh. 
 
 When tears stole down his face, she knew not why. 
 
 Severe his task those visits to forego. 
 
 And feed his heart with voluntary woe. 
 
 Yet this he did ; the wan IMoon circling found 
 
 His evenings cheerless, and his rest unsound ; 
 
 And saw th' unquenched flame his bosom swell : 
 
 What were his doubts, thus let the Story tell.
 
 20 WALTER AND JAXK. 
 
 The renewed Journey. v. ] 
 
 A iiKtnth's sharp conflict only serv'd to prove 
 The pow'r, as well as truth, of Walter's love. 
 Absence more strongly on his mind pourtray'd 
 His own sweet, injur'd, unoffending ]\Iaid. 
 Once more he'd go; full resolute awhile. 
 But heard his native bells on every stile ; 
 The sound recall'd him with a pow'rful charm. 
 The Heath wide open'd, and the day was warm ; 
 There, where a bed of tempting green he found. 
 Increasing anguish weigh'd him to the ground, 
 His well-grown limbs the scatter'd Daisies press'd. 
 While his clench'd hand fell heavy on his breast. 
 ' Why do I go in cruel sport to say, 
 ' I li)ve thee, Jane, appoint the happy day ?' 
 Why seek her sweet ingenuous reply, 
 Tlien grasp her hand and proffer — poverty .'' 
 Why, if I love her and adore her name, 
 Wliv act like time and sickness on her frame ?
 
 WALTER AND JANE. 21 
 
 V. 'j:>. Love and Prudence. 
 
 ' Why should my scanty pittance nip her prime, 
 
 ' And chase away the Rose before its time ? 
 
 ' I 'm young, 'tis true ; the world beholds me free ; 
 
 ' Labour ne'er show'd a frightful face to me ; 
 
 ' Nature's first wants hard labour should supply ; 
 
 ' But should it fail, 'twill be too late to fly- 
 
 * Some Summers hence, if nought our loves annoy, 
 ' The image of my Jane may lisp her joy ; 
 
 ' Or, blooming boys with imitative swing 
 ' May mock my arm, and make the anvil ring ; 
 ' Then if in rags — But, O my heart, forbear, — 
 ' I love the Girl, and why should I despair ? 
 ' And that I love her aU the village knows ; 
 ' Oft from my pain the mirth of others flows : 
 ' As when a neighbour's Steed with glancing eye 
 ' Saw his par'd hoof supported on my thigh ; 
 
 * Jane pass'd that instant ; mischief came of course : 
 ' I drove the nail awry, and lam'd the Ilorsc ;
 
 22 WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 Itecollections. v. 113. 
 
 ' The |>oor beast limp'd : I bore a IMaster's frown, 
 ' A thousand times I Avish'd the wound my own. 
 
 * When to these tangling thoughts I've been resign'd, 
 ' Fun' or languor has possess'd my mind, 
 
 * All eyes have star'd I've blown a blast so strong; 
 ' Forgot to smite at all, or smote too long. 
 
 ' If at the Ale-house door, %vith careless glee 
 
 ' One drinks to Jane, and darts a look on me ; 
 
 ' I feel that blush which her dear name -will bring, 
 
 ' I feel : — but, guilty Love, 'tis not thy sting ! 
 
 ' Yet what are jeers ? the bubbles of an hour ; 
 
 ' Jane knows what Love can do, and feels its pow'r ; 
 
 ' In her mild eye fair Truth her meaning tells ; 
 
 * 'Tis not in looks like hers that falsehood dwells. 
 ' As water shed upon a dusty way 
 
 ' I 've seen midst downward pebbles devious stray ; 
 ' If kindred drops an adverse channel keep, 
 ' The crystal friends toward each other creep ;
 
 WALTER AND JANE. 23 
 
 v. 1.11. The Interview. 
 
 ' Near, and still nearer, rolls each little tide, 
 ' Th' expanding mirror swells on either side : 
 ' They touch — 'tis done — receding bound'ries fly, 
 '- An instantaneous union strikes the eye ; 
 ' So 'tis with us : for Jaxe would be my bride ; 
 ' Shall coward fears then turn the bliss aside ?' 
 
 While thus he spoke, he heard a gentle sound. 
 That seem'd a jarring footstep on the ground : 
 Asham'd of grief, he bade his eyes unclose. 
 And shook with agitation as he rose ; 
 All unprepar'd the sweet surprise to bear. 
 His heart beat high, for Jane herself was there. — 
 
 Flusht was her cheek ; she seem'd the full-blo\\ n 
 flower ; 
 For warmth gave loveliness a double power : 
 Round her fair brow the deep confusion ran, 
 A waving handkerchief became her fan, 
 Her lips, where dwelt sweet love and smiling ease, 
 PufFd gently back the warm assailing breeze.
 
 UALTEK AND JANK. 
 
 Rcscninunl and Tenderness. 
 
 • I vc traveU'd all tlicse weary miles with pain, 
 
 ' Tn M-r inv native village once again : 
 
 ' And show my true regard for neighbour Hind; 
 
 ' Not like you, Walter, she was always kind.' 
 
 'Twas thus, each soft sensation laid aside, 
 
 She l)utiy"d her spirits up with maiden pride; 
 
 I)i.sclaim'd her love, e'en while she felt the sting ; 
 
 ' What, come for Walters sake !' 'Twas no such thing. 
 
 But when astonishment his tongue releas'd, 
 
 Pride's usurpation in an instant ceas'd : 
 
 By force he caught her hand as passing by, 
 
 And gaz'd upon her half-averted eye ; 
 
 His heart's distraction, and his boding fears 
 
 She heard, and answer'd with a flood of tears ; 
 
 Precious relief: sure friends that forward press 
 
 To tell the mind's unspeakable distress. 
 
 Ye Youths, whom crimson'd health and genuine fire 
 
 Bear joyous on the wings of young desire,
 
 WALTER AND JANE. 25 
 
 \\ Iffi- Visit to a Friend. 
 
 Ye, who Still bow to Love's almighty sway, 
 What could true passion, what could Walter say? 
 Age, teU me true, nor shake your locks in vain ; 
 Tread back your paths, and be in love again ; 
 In your young days did such a favouring hour 
 Show you the littleness of Wealth and Pow'r, 
 Advent'rous climbers of the Mountain's brow. 
 While Love, their master, spreads his couch below. 
 ' My dearest Jane,' the untaught Walter cried. 
 As, half repell'd, he pleaded by her side ; 
 ' My dearest Jane, think of me as you may — ' 
 Thus — stiU unutter'd what he strove to say. 
 They breath'd in sighs the anguish of their minds. 
 And took the path that led to neighbour Hind's. 
 
 A secret joy the well-known roof inspir'd. 
 Small was its store, and little they desir'd ; 
 Jane dried her tears ; while Walter forward flew 
 To aid the Dame ; who to the brink updrew 
 
 c
 
 'Jfi WALTEll AM) JANE. 
 
 The Expostulation. 
 
 TIip iMJnd'rous Bucket as they reach'd the \\'ell, 
 
 And .scarcely with exhausted breath could tell 
 
 How welcome to her Cot the blooming Pair, 
 
 O'lT whom she watch'd with a maternal care. 
 
 ♦ \\'Iiat ails thee, Jane?' the wary Matron cried: 
 
 A\'itli heaving breast the modest Maid reply'd^ 
 
 Now gently moving back her wooden Chair 
 
 To shun the current of the cooling air ; 
 
 ' Not much, good dame ; I 'm weary by the way ; 
 
 ' Perhaps, anon, I 've something else to say.' 
 
 Now. while the Seed-cake crumbled on her knee. 
 
 And snowy Jessamine peep'd in to see. 
 
 And the transparent Lilac at the door 
 
 Full to the Sun its purple honours bore. 
 
 The clam'rous Hen her fearless brood disjilavd 
 
 And march'd around; while thus the I\Iatvon said: 
 
 • Jank has been weeping, Walter ; — prithee why ? 
 
 • I ve seen her laugh, and dance, but never cry.
 
 Walter and jane. 27 
 
 V. 203. Pleadings of Experience for Love with extreme Prudence. 
 
 ' But I can guess ; with her you should have been, 
 ' When late I saw you loit'ring on the green ; 
 ' I 'm an old Woman, and the truth may tell ; 
 ' 1 say then. Boy, you have not us'd her well.' 
 Jank felt for Walter ; shar'd his cruel pain. 
 And Pity urg'd her e'en to tears again. 
 ' Don't scold him. Neighbour, he has much to say ; 
 ' Indeed he came and met me by the way.' 
 The Dame resum'd — ' Why then, my Children, why 
 ' Do such young bosoms heave the piteous sigh .'' 
 ' The ills of Life to you are yet unknown ; 
 ' Death's sev'ring shaft, and Poverty's cold frown : 
 ' I 've felt them both by turns ; — but as they pass'd, 
 ' Strong was my trust, and here I am at last. 
 ' When I dwelt young and cheerful down the Lane 
 ' (And, though I say it, I was much like Jane) 
 ' O'er flow'ry fields, with Hind, I lov'd to stray, 
 ' And talk, and laugh, and fool the time away : 
 
 c2
 
 f-W WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 The Victory. v. 221- 
 
 ' And Care defied ; who not one pain could give, 
 
 ' Till the thought came of how we were to live ; 
 
 ' And then Love plied his arrows thicker still : 
 
 ' And prov'd victorious, — as he always wiU. 
 
 ' We brav'd Life's storm together ; while that Drone, 
 
 ' Your poor old Uncle, Walter, liv'd alone. 
 
 ' He died the other day : when round his bed 
 
 ' No tender soothing tear Affection shed — 
 
 • Affection ! 'twas a plant he never knew : — 
 
 ' Why should he feast on fruits he never grew?' 
 
 Walter caught fire: nor was he charm'd alone 
 With conscious Truth's firm elevated tone; 
 .Jane from her seat sprang forward, half afraid. 
 Attesting with a blush what Goody said. 
 Hit Lover took a more decided part: — 
 (O : 'twas the very Chord that touch'd his heart) ;— 
 Alive to the best feelings man can prize, 
 A Bridegroom's transport sparkled in his eyes ;
 
 WALTER AND JANE. 29 
 
 V. 2;4fl. The Confession. 
 
 Love, conquering power, with unrestricted range, 
 Silenc'd the arguments of Time and Change ; 
 And led his vot'ry on, and bade him view. 
 And prize the light-wing'd moments as they flew : 
 All doubts gave way, all retrospective lore. 
 Whence cooler Reason tortur'd him before ; 
 Comparison of times, the Lab'rer's hire. 
 And many a truth Reflection might inspire. 
 Sunk powerless. ' Dame, I am a fool,' he cried ; 
 ' Alone I might have reason'd till I died. 
 ' I caus'd those tears of Jane's — but as they fell 
 ' How much I felt none but ourselves can tell. 
 ' While dastard fears withheld me from her sight, 
 ' Sighs reign'd by day and hideous dreams by night ; 
 * 'Twas then the Soldier's plume and rolling Drum 
 ' Seem'd for a while to strike my sorrows dumb ; 
 ' To fly from Care then half resolv'd I stood, 
 ' And witliout horror mus'd on fields of blood.
 
 so WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 L'ncxpfftpil Visi'. v. 2.'>7. 
 
 ' Hut Iiupo prcvail'd. — Be then the sword resign'd; 
 ' And I '11 make Shares for those that stay beliind, 
 ' And you, sweet Girl, — ' 
 
 He would have added more. 
 Had not a glancing shadow at the door 
 Announc'd a guest, who bore with winning grace 
 His well-tim'd errand pictur'd in his face. 
 Around with silent reverence they stood; 
 .\ blameless reverence — the man was good. 
 Wealth he had some, a match for his desires. 
 First on the list of active Country 'Squires. 
 Seeing the youthful pair with downcast eyes, 
 rnmov'd by Summer flowers and cloudless skies, 
 Pa.ss slowly by his Gate ; his book resign'd. 
 He watch'd their steps, and follow'd far behind, 
 Beiiring with inward joy, and honest pride, 
 A trust of Walter's kinsman ere he died, 
 A hard-earn'd mite, deposited with care. 
 And with a miser's spirit worship'd there.
 
 WALTER AND JANE. 3-1 
 
 \ . -j; J. The Difficulty removed. 
 
 He found what oft the generous bosom seeks, 
 In the Dame's court'sies and Jane's blushing cheeks. 
 That consciousness of Worth, that freeborn Grace, 
 Which waits on Virtue in the meanest place. 
 
 ' Young Man, I 'U not apologize to you, 
 ' Nor name intrusion, for my news is true ; 
 ' 'Tis duty brings me here : your wants I 've heard, 
 ' And can relieve : yet be the dead rever'd. 
 ' Here, in this Purse, (what should have cheer'd a 
 
 Wife,) 
 ' Lies half the savings of your Uncle's life ! 
 ' I know your history, and your wishes know : 
 ' And love to see the seeds of Virtue grow. 
 ' I 've a spare Shed that fronts the public road, 
 ' ]Make that your Shop ; I '11 make it your abode. 
 ' Thus much from me, —the rest is but your due.' 
 That instant twenty pieces sprung to view. 
 Goody, her dim eyes wiping, rais'd her brow, 
 And saw the young pair look thov knoM- not how ;
 
 32 W A I > r K K A ND J ANE. 
 
 How little of outward Good suffices for Happiness. v. 293. 
 
 Perils and Power while humble minds forego. 
 Who gives them half a Kingdom gives them w(je ; 
 t'omforts may be procur'd and want defied, 
 Ileav'ns ! with liow small a sum, when right applied ! 
 (five Li)ve and honest Industry their way. 
 Clear but the Sun-rise of Life's little day. 
 Those we term poor shall oft tliat wealth obtain, 
 For which th' ambitious sigh, but sigh in vain : 
 Wealth that still brightens, as its stores increase; 
 The calm of Conscience, and the reign of Peace. 
 
 Walter's enamour'd Soul, from news like this. 
 Now felt the dawnings of his future bliss; 
 Ken its the Red-breast, shelt'ring in a bower, 
 ^lourns the short diirkness of a passing Shower, 
 Then, while the azure sky extends around. 
 Darts on a worm that breaks the moisten'd ground. 
 And mounts the dripping fence with joy elate. 
 And shares the prize triumphant with his mate.
 
 AVALTEll AND JANE. 33 
 
 T. 311. Joy above Wealth. 
 
 So did the Youth ; — the treasure straight became 
 An humble servant to Love's sacred flame ; 
 Glorious subjection ! — Thus his silence broke : 
 Joy gave him words ; still quick'ning as he spoke. 
 ' Want was my dread, my wishes were but few ; 
 ' Others might doubt, but Jane those wishes knew ; 
 ' This gold may rid my heart of pains and sighs ; 
 ' But her tiue love is .<till my greatest prize. 
 ' Long as I live, when this bright day comes round, 
 ' Beneath my Roof your noble deeds shall sound ; 
 ' But, first, to make my gratitude appear, 
 ' I '11 shoe your Honour's Horses for a Year ; 
 ' If clouds should threaten when your Corn is down, 
 ' I '11 lend a hand, and summon half the town ; 
 ' If good betide, I '11 sound it in my songs, 
 
 * And be the first avenger of your wrongs : 
 
 * Though rude in manners, free I hope to live : 
 ' This Ale 's not mine ; no Ale have I to give. 
 
 c5
 
 :'.i \VAl/ri:il AND JANE. 
 
 Grateful Frankness. v. 329. 
 
 ' Yet, Sir, though fortune frown'd when I was born, 
 • L<'t 's drink eternal friendship from this Horn, 
 ' How much our present joy to thee we owe, 
 ' Soon our three Bells shall let the Neighbours know : 
 ' The sound shall raise e'en stooping Age awhile, 
 ' And every IMaid shall meet you with a smile ; 
 ' Lonu; may you lire' — the wish like lightning flew; 
 By each repeated as the 'squire withdrew. 
 ' Long may t/ou live,' his feeling heart rejoin'd ; 
 Leaving well pleas'd such happy Souls behind. 
 Hope promis'd fair to cheer them to the end ; 
 With Love their guide, and Goody for their friend.
 
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 Near the High road, upon a winding stream, 
 An honest Miller rose to Wealth and Fame : 
 The noblest Virtues cheer'd his lengthen'd days. 
 And all the Country echo'd nith his praise :
 
 THE MILLERS MAID. 
 
 The Tempest. 
 
 His Wife, the Doctress of the neighb'ring Poor*, 
 Drew constant pray'rs and blessings round his door. 
 One Summer's night (the hour of rest was come) 
 Darkness unusual overspread their home ; 
 A chilling blast was felt ; the foremost cloud 
 Sprinkled the bubbling Pool ; and thunder loud. 
 Though distant yet, menacd the country rotind, 
 And fiU'd the Heavens with its solemn sound. 
 \\'lu) can retire to rest when tempests lour ? 
 Xur wait the issue of the coming hour ? 
 Sleekly resign'd she sat, in anxious pain ; 
 He till'd his pipe, and listen'd to the rain 
 That batter'd furiously their strong abode, 
 Roar'd in the Dam, and lash'd the pebbled road ; 
 
 • This village and llic poor of this neighbourhood know what 
 it is to have possessed such a blessing, and feel at tliis moment 
 what it is to lose it by death. C. L. 
 
 Troiton, IMh oJ'Scptanbcr, 1801.
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 37 
 
 V. 19. The young Stranger. 
 
 When, mingled with the storm, confus'd and w iUl, 
 They heard, or thought they heard, a screaming Child: 
 The voice approach'd ; and 'midst the thunder's roar, 
 Now loudly begg'd for Mercy at the door. 
 
 Mercy was there : the Miller heard the call ; 
 His door he open'd ; when a sudden squall 
 Drove in a wretched Girl ; who weeping stood, 
 Whilst the cold rain dripp'd from her in a flood. 
 With kind ofliciousness the tender Dame 
 Rous'd up the dying embers to a flame ; 
 Dry clothes procur'd, and cheer'd her shiv'ring guest, 
 And sooth'd the sorrows of her infant breast. 
 But as she stript her shoulders, lily-white, 
 W'hat marks of cruel usage shock'd their sight ! 
 Weals, and blue wounds, most piteous to behold 
 Upon a Child yet scarcely ten years old. 
 
 The Miller felt his indignation rise. 
 Yet, as the weary stranger clos'd her eves,
 
 r;s THE miller's maid. 
 
 The giinple Story. v. 3?. 
 
 And secnitl fatigu'd beyond her strength and years, 
 ' Sleep, Child, (he said) and wipe away your tears.' 
 They wateh'd her slumbers till the storm was done ; 
 When thus the generous i\Ian again begun : 
 ' Set' Hutt'riiig sighs that rise against her will, 
 
 • And agitating dreams disturb her still ! 
 
 • Danu', we should know before we go to rest, 
 
 ' U'hence comes this Girl, and how she came distrest. 
 
 ' Wake her and ask ; for she is sorely bruis'd : 
 
 ' I long to know by whom she 's thus misus'd. — 
 
 ' Child, what 's your name.^ how came you in the storm ? 
 
 ' Have you no home to keep you dry and warm ? 
 
 ■ \V\in gave you all those woimds your shoulders show ? 
 
 • Whore are your parents ? Whither would you go ?' 
 
 The Stranger bursting into tears, look'd pale;, 
 And this tlie purport of her artless tale : 
 • I have no Parents ; and no friends beside ; 
 
 • I well remember when my iM other died :
 
 THK MITXER'S MAID. 30 
 
 V. 55. The simple Story continued. 
 
 ' My Brother cried ; and so did I that day : 
 
 ' We had no Father ; — he was gone away ; 
 
 ' That night we left our home new clothes to \\ear : 
 
 '"The Workhouse found them ; we were carried there. 
 
 * We lov'd each other dearly : when we met 
 
 ' We always shar'd what trifles we could get. 
 
 ' But George was older by a year than me : — 
 
 ' He parted from me and was sent to sea. 
 
 ' ' Good-bye, dear Phoebe !' the poor fellow said : 
 
 ' Perhaps he '11 come again ; perhaps he 's dead. 
 
 ' When I grew strong enough I went to place ; 
 
 ' Aly iVIistress had a sour ill-natur'd face ; 
 
 ' And though I 've been so often beat and chid, 
 
 ' I strove to please her. Sir, indeed, I did. 
 
 * Weary and spiritless to bed 1 crept, 
 
 * And always cried at night before I slept. 
 ' This morning I offended ; and I bore 
 
 * A cruel beating, worse than all before.
 
 U) TIIK -MIM.KR'S MAID. 
 
 The Child becomes one of the Family. v. 7.') 
 
 ' I'likiiDwri to all the House I ran away ; 
 
 ' And thus far travell'd through the sultry day ; 
 
 ' And, () don't send me back ! I dare not go — ' 
 
 ' I send you back !' the Miller cried, ' no, no.' 
 
 Th' appeals of Wretchedness had weight with him. 
 
 And sympathy would warm him every limb ; 
 
 lie niuttor'd, glorj-ing in the work begun, 
 
 • Well done, my little Wench ; 'twas nobly done !' 
 
 Then said, with looks more cheering than the fire. 
 
 And feelings such as Pity can inspire, 
 
 ' 31 y house has childless been this many a year ; 
 
 ' While you deserve it you shall tarry here.' 
 
 The Orphan mark'd the ardour of his eye, 
 
 Hlost his kind words, and thank'd him witli a sigh. 
 
 Thus was the sacred compact doubly seal'd ; 
 Thus were her spirits rais'd, her bruises heal'd : 
 Thankful, and cheerful too, no more afraid. 
 Thus little P/uvbe was the 3Iiller's maid.
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 41 
 
 V. 91. The new Comer. 
 
 Grateful they found her ; patient of control : 
 A most bewitching gentleness of soul 
 IMade pleasure of what work she had to do : 
 She grew in stature, and in beauty too. 
 
 Five years she pass'd in this delightful home : 
 Five happy years : but when the sixth was come. 
 The Miller, from a Alarket-town hard by. 
 Brought home a sturdy youth, his strength to try. 
 To raise the sluice-gates early every morn, 
 To heave his powder'd sacks and grind his corn : 
 And meeting Phoebe, whom he lov'd so dear, 
 'I have brought you home a Husband, Girl; d'ye 
 
 hear .'' 
 ' He begg'd for work ; his money seem'd but scant : 
 ' Those that will work 'tis pity they should want*, 
 ' So use him well, and we shall shortly see 
 ' Whether he merits what I 've done like thee.' 
 * A Maxim which all ought to remember. C L.
 
 42 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 First Impressions. v. 1U7. 
 
 Xou tlirobbd her heart, — a new sensation quite, — 
 
 Whene'er the comely Stranger was in sight : 
 
 For he at once assiduously strove 
 
 To plea.se so sweet a Maid, and win lier love. 
 
 At every corner stopp'd her in her way ; 
 
 And saw fresh beauties opening every day. 
 
 He ti)()k (ieliglit in tracing in her face 
 
 The mantling blush, and ev'ry nameless grace. 
 
 That Sensibility would bring to view. 
 
 When Love he mention'd ; — Love and Honour true. 
 
 But Phoebe still was shy ; and wish'd to know 
 
 More of the honest Youth, whose manly brow 
 
 She verily believ'd was Truth's own throne. 
 
 And all liis words as artless as her own : 
 
 ^lost true she judg'd ; yet, long the Youth forbore 
 
 I)i\'ulging where, and how, he liv'd before ; 
 
 And scem'd to strive his History to hide, 
 
 Tdl fair Esteem inlisted on his side.
 
 THE MILLKR'S MAID. 43 
 
 V. li.'j. Inquiry. — Ingenious Explanation. 
 
 The Miller saw, and mention'dj in his praise, 
 
 The prompt fidelity of all his ways : 
 
 Till in a vacant hour, the dinner done. 
 
 One day he joking cried, ' Come here, my Son ! 
 
 ' 'Tis pity that so good a lad as you 
 
 ' Beneath my roof should bring disorders new ; 
 
 ' But here 's my Phoebe, — once so light and airy 
 
 ' She 'd trip along the passage like a Fairy, — 
 
 ' Has lost her swiftness quite, since here you came ; — 
 
 ' And yet, — I can't perceive the girl is lame ! 
 
 ■ The obstacles she meets with still fall thicker : 
 
 ' Old as I am, I 'd turn a corner quicker.' — 
 
 The Youth blush'd deep ; and Phoebe hung her head : 
 
 The good Man smil'd, and thus again he said : 
 
 ' Not that I deem it matter of surprise, 
 
 ' That you should love to gaze at Phoebe's eyes ; 
 
 * But be explicit. Boy, and deal with honour : 
 
 ' I feel my happiness depend upon her.
 
 44 THK miller's maid. 
 
 The little History. v. 14.'). 
 
 When here you came you'd sorrow on your broM'; 
 Ami I 've forborne to question you till now. 
 First, then, say what thou art.' He instant bow'd. 
 And thus, in Phcebc's, hearing, spoke aloud : 
 Thus far experienc'd. Sir, in you I find 
 All that is generous, fatherly, and kind ; 
 .\ii(l while you look for proofs of real worth 
 You'll not regard the meanness of my birth. 
 When, pennyless and sad, you met Avith me, 
 I 'd just escap'd the dangers of the Sea ; 
 Rosolv'd to try my fortune on the shore : 
 To get my bread ; and trust the waves no more : 
 Having no home, nor Parents, left behind, 
 I il all my fortune, all my friends, to find. 
 Keen disappointment wounded me that morn : 
 For, traveling near the spot where I was born, 
 I at the well-known door where I was bred 
 Inquir'd who still was livin<r, who was dead :
 
 THE MILI.EllS MAID. 45 
 
 v. 1151. The Recognition. 
 
 ' But first, and most, I sought with anxious fear 
 
 ' Tidings to gain of her who once was dear ; 
 
 ' A Girl, with all the meekness of the dove, 
 
 ' The constant sharer of my childhood's love ; 
 
 ' She call'd me Brother: — which I heard with pride, 
 
 ' Though now suspect we are not so allied. 
 
 ' Thus much I learnt ; (no more the churls would say ;) 
 
 ' She ^vent to service, and she ran away, 
 
 ' And scandal added' — ' Hold !' the Miller cried. 
 
 And, in an instant, stood at Phoebe's side ; 
 
 For he observ'd, while list'ning to the tale. 
 
 Her spirits falter'd, and her cheeks turn'd pale ; 
 
 Whilst her clasp'd hands descended to her knee. 
 
 She sinking whisper'd forth, ' O God, 'tis he.'^ 
 
 The good Man, though he guess'd the pleasing truth. 
 
 Was far too busy to inform the Youth : 
 
 But stirr'd himself amain to aid his wife. 
 
 Who soon restor'd the trembler back to life
 
 46 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 Mutual Recollections. 
 
 Auhile insensible she still appear'd; 
 IJut, ' my Brother,' was distinctly heard: 
 Th' astonish'd youth now held her to his breast ; 
 And tears and kisses soon explain'd the rest. 
 
 Past deeds now from each tongue alternate fell : 
 For news of dearest import both could tell. 
 Fondly, from childhood's tears to youth's full prime, 
 Tlifv niatch'd the incidents of jogging time; 
 And jirov'd that, when with Tyranny opprest. 
 Poor Phoebe groan'd with wounds and broken rest, 
 George felt no less ; was harass'd and forlorn ; 
 A rope's end foUow'd him both night and morn. 
 And in that very storm when Phoebe fled, 
 "W'lu'ii tlie rain drench'd her yet unshelter'd head; 
 That very Storm he on the Ocean brav'd. 
 The Vessel founder'd, and the Boy was sav'd ! 
 ^Mysterious Heaven !— and O with what delight 
 She told the happy issue of her flight ;
 
 THE MILLEll'S JIAID. 
 
 The Perplexity 
 
 To his charm'd heart a living picture drew ; 
 
 And gave to hospitality its due ! 
 
 The list'ning Host observ'd the gentle Pair ; 
 
 And ponder'd on the means that brought them there ; 
 
 Convinc'd, while unimpeach'd their Virtue stood, 
 
 'TwnsHeav'ns high Will that he should do them good. 
 
 But now the anxious Dame, impatient grown, 
 Demanded what the Youth had heard, or known. 
 Whereon to ground those doubts but just exprest ; — 
 Doubts, which must interest the feeling breast : 
 ' Her Brother wert thou, George ? — how ? prithee say : 
 ' Canst thou forego, or cast that name away ?' 
 
 ' No living proofs have I,' the Youth reply 'd, 
 ' That we by closest ties are not allied ; 
 ' But in my memory live, and ever AviU, 
 ' A mother's dying Avords — I hear them still. 
 ' She said, to one who watch'd her parting breath, 
 ' ' Don't separate the Children at my Death ;
 
 48 TIIF. MII>LER'S MAID. 
 
 Anxiety. v. 215. 
 
 ' ' Tlicij 'rc not hoth mine : bid — ' here the scene was 
 
 clos'd ; 
 ' She died ; and left us helpless and expos'd ; 
 ' Nor Time hath thrown, nor Reason's opening pow'r, 
 ' One friendly ray on that benighted hour.' 
 
 Ne'er did the Chieftains of a Warring State 
 Hoar from the Oracle their half-told fate 
 With more religious fear, or more suspense, 
 Than Phoebe now endur'd : — for every sense 
 Became absorb'd in this unwelcome theme ; 
 Nay, ever)' meditation, every dream, 
 Th' inexplicable sentence held to view ; 
 ' T/if'i/'re not both mine, was every morning new: 
 For, till this hour, the Maid had never prov'd 
 How far she was enthrall'd, how much she lov'd; 
 In that fond character he first appear'd ; 
 His kindness charm'd her, and his smiles endear'd : 
 This dubious mystery the passion crost ; 
 Her peace was wounded, and her Lover lost.
 
 THE MIIXEK'S MAID. 49 
 
 V. 233. The Inquiry suggested. 
 
 For George with all his resolution strove 
 
 To check the progress of his growing love ; 
 
 Or, if he e'er indulg'd a tender kiss, 
 
 Th' unravell'd secret robb'd him of his bliss. 
 
 HeultTi's foe. Suspense, so irksome to be borne. 
 
 An ever-piercing and retreating thorn. 
 
 Hung on their Hearts, when Nature bade them rise, 
 
 And stole Content's bright ensign from their eyes. 
 
 The good, folks saw the change, and griev'd to find 
 These troubles labouring in Phcebe's mind : 
 They lov'd them both ; and with one voice propos'd 
 The only means whence Truth might be disclos'd ; 
 That, when the Summer months should shrink the rill. 
 And scarce its languid stream would turn the Mill, 
 When the Spring broods, and Pigs, and Lambs were 
 
 rear'd, 
 (A time when George and Phoebe might be spar'd)
 
 .50 THE MILLERS MAID. 
 
 Eager Expectation. v. 24S 
 
 Their birth-place they should visit once again. 
 To tr)' with joint endeavours to obtain 
 From Record, or Tradition, what might be 
 To cliain, or set their chain'd affections free : 
 Affinity beyond all doubts to prove ; 
 Or clear the road for Nature and for Love. 
 
 Never, till now, did Phoebe count the hours. 
 Or think May long, or wish away its flowers ; 
 \S'nh mutual sighs both fann'd the wings of Time ; 
 As we climb Hills, and gladden as we climb. 
 And reach at last the distant promis'd seat, 
 Casting the glowing landscape at our. feet. 
 Oft had the Morning Rose with dew been wet. 
 And oft the journeying Sun in glory set, 
 Beyond the willow'd meads of vigorous grass. 
 The steep green hill, and woods they were to pass, 
 When now the day arriv'd : Impatience reign'd ; 
 And George, — by trifling obstacles detain'd, —
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 51 
 
 V. 2f)7. The Old Soldier. 
 
 His bending Blackthorn on the threshold prest. 
 
 Survey 'd the wind^vard clouds, and hop'd the best. 
 
 Phxjebe, attir'd with every modest grace. 
 
 While Health and Beauty revell'd in her face. 
 
 Came forth : but soon evinc'd an absent mind. 
 
 For back she turn'd for something left behind ; 
 
 Again the same, till George grew tir'd of home, 
 
 And peevishly exclaimed, ' Come, Phoebe, come.' 
 
 Another hinderance yet he had to feel : 
 
 As fjrom the door they tripp'd with nimble heel, 
 
 A poor old Man, foot-founder'd and alone. 
 
 Thus urgent spoke, in Trouble's genuine tone : 
 
 ' JMy pretty Maid, if happiness you seek, 
 
 ' May disappointment never fade your cheek ! — 
 
 ' Yours be the joy : — yet, feel another's woe : 
 
 ' O leave some little gift before you go.' 
 
 His words struck home ; and back she turn'd again, 
 
 (The ready friend of indigence and pain,) 
 
 d2
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 The Soldier's Tale. 
 
 To banish hunger from his shatter'd frame ; 
 
 And close behind her, lo, the Miller came, 
 
 Witli jug in hand, and cried ' George, why such haste ? 
 
 ' Here; take a draught ; and let that Soldier taste.' 
 
 ' Thanks for your bounty. Sir,' the Veteran said ; 
 
 Threw down his Wallet, and made bare his head ; 
 
 And straight began, tho' mix'd with doubts and fears, 
 
 Th' unprefac'd History of his latter years. 
 
 ' I cross'd th' Atlantic with my comrades brave, 
 
 ' Where sickness sweeps whole regiments to the grave ; 
 
 ' Yet I 've escap'd ; and bear my arms no more ; 
 
 ' My age discharg'd me when I came on shore. 
 
 ' My fFife,Vve heard,'— and here he wip'd his eyes, — 
 
 ' In the cold corner of the Church-yard lies. 
 
 ' By her consent it was I left my home : 
 
 ' Employment fail'd, and poverty was come ; 
 
 ' The Bounty tempted me ;— she had it all : 
 
 ■ We parted ; and I 've seen my betters fall.
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 53 
 
 V. 303. The Soldier's Tale continued. 
 
 ' Yet, as I 'm spar'd, though in this piteous case, 
 ' I 'm trav'lling homeward to my native place ; 
 ' Though, should I reach that dear remember'd spotj 
 -' Perhaps Old Grainger will be quite forgot.' 
 
 All eyes beheld young George with wonder start ; 
 Strong were the secret bodings of his heart ; 
 Yet not indulg'd : for he with doubts survey'd 
 By turns the Stranger, and the lovely jMaid. 
 ' Had you no Children ?' — 'Yes, young Man, I d two : 
 ' A Boi/, if stiU he lives, as old as you : 
 ' Yet not my own ; but likely so to prove ; 
 ' Though but the pledge of an unlawful Love : 
 ' I cherish'd him, to hide a Sisters shame : 
 ' He shar'd my best affections, and my name. 
 ' But why, young folks, should I detain you here .'' 
 ' Go : and may blessings wait upon your cheer. 
 ' I too will travel on ; — perhaps to find 
 ' The only treasure that I left behind.
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 The Discovery. 
 
 ' Such kindly thoughts my fainting hopes revive : 
 ' Phcebe, my Cherub, art thou still alive ?' 
 
 Could Nature hold ! — Could youthful Love forbear ! 
 George clasp'd the wond'ring Maid, and whisper'd, 
 
 ' Tfiere! 
 ' i'ou *re mine for ever ! — O, sustain the rest ; 
 ' And hush the tumult of your throbbing breast.' 
 Then to the Soldier turn'd with manly pride. 
 And fondly led his long-intended Bride. 
 ' Here, see your Child; nor wish a sweeter flow'r. 
 ' 'Tis George that speaks ; thou 'It bless the happy 
 
 ' hour ! — 
 ' Nay, be compos'd ; for all will yet be well, 
 ' Though here our history 's too long to tell.' — 
 
 A long-lost Father found, the mystery clear'd. 
 What mingled transports in her face appear'd ! 
 The gazing Veteran stood with hands uprais'd — 
 ' Art thou indeed my Child ! then, God be prais'd.'
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 55 
 
 V. '.i-ij. The happy Relations now found. 
 
 O'er his rough cheeks the tears profusely spread ; 
 Such as fools say l^ecome not IMen to shed ; 
 Past hours of bliss, regenerated charms, 
 f?ose, when he felt his daughter in his arms : 
 So tender was the scene, the generous Dame 
 Wept, as she told of Phoebe's virtuous fame ; 
 And the good Host, with gestures passing strange. 
 Abstracted seem'd through fields of joy to range : 
 Rejoicing that his favour'd Roof should prove 
 Virtue's asylum, and the nurse of Love ; 
 Rejoicing that to him the task was given ; 
 While his full Soul was mounting up to Heav'n. 
 But now, as from a dream his Reason sprung, 
 And heartiest greetings dwelt upon his tongue; 
 The sounding Kitchen floor at once receiv'd 
 The happy group, with all tlieir fears reliev'd ; 
 ' Soldier,' he cried, ' you 've found your Girl, 'tis true 
 • But suffer mc to be a Fatlier too ;
 
 :A) the miller's maid. 
 
 The Bliss of disinterested Benevolence. v. 3.05. 
 
 ' For, never Child that blest a Parent's knee 
 
 • Could show more duty than she has to me. 
 
 ' Strangely she came ; Affliction chas'd her hard : 
 
 ' I pitied her ; — and this is my reward ! 
 
 ' Here, sit you down; recount your perils o'er: 
 
 • Henceforth be this your home ; and grieve no more ; 
 
 ■ Plenty hath shower'd her dewdrops on my head ; 
 
 ■ Care visits not my Table, nor my Bed. 
 
 • My heart's warm wishes thus then I fulfil: 
 
 ■ 3Iy Dame and I can live without the Mill: 
 George, take the whole ; I 'U near you still remain. 
 To guide your judgment in the choice of grain : 
 
 In \'irtue's path commence your prosperous life. 
 And from my hand receive your worthy Wife. 
 Ris.f, Phabc; rise, my Girl! — kneel not to me; 
 But to THAT Pow'r who intcrpos'd for thee. 
 Integrity hath mark'd your favourite Youth; 
 Fair budding Honour, Constancy, and Truth :
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 57 
 
 V. 373. Perfect Content : Hopes and Prospects of Goodness. 
 
 * Go to his arms ; — and may unsullied joys 
 ' Bring smiling round me rosy Girls and Boys ! 
 ' I '11 love them for thy sake. And may your days 
 ' Glide on, as glides the Stream that never stays ; 
 ' Bright as whose shingled bed, till life's decline, 
 ' May all your Worth and all your 'Virtues shine !' 
 
 D
 
 WIDOW TO HER HOUR-GLASS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Come, friend, I '11 turn thee up again : 
 Companion of the lonely hour ! 
 Spring thirty times hath fed with rain 
 And cloth'd with leaves my humble bower,
 
 (id THK WIDOW TO 
 
 Since thou hast stood 
 
 I II frame of wood. 
 On Chest or Window by my side ; 
 At every Birth still thou wert near. 
 Still spoke thine admonitions clear — 
 
 And when my Husband died. 
 
 II. 
 
 I vi' often watch'd thy streaming sand. 
 And seen the growing IMountain rise. 
 And often found Life's hopes to stand 
 On props as weak in Wisdom's eyes : 
 
 Its conic crown 
 
 Still sliding down. 
 Again heap'd up, then down again ; 
 The sand above more hollow grew. 
 Like days and years still filt'ring through. 
 
 And mingling joy and pain.
 
 HER HOUR-GLASS. 61 
 
 III. 
 
 While thus I spin, and sometimes sing 
 (For now and then my heart will glow). 
 Thou measur'st Time's expanding wing : 
 By thee the noontide hour I know : 
 
 Though silent thou. 
 
 Still shalt thou flow. 
 And jog along thy destin'd way ; 
 But when I glean the sultry fields. 
 When Earth her yellow Harvest yields. 
 
 Thou gett'st a Holiday. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Steady as Truth, on either end 
 Thy daily task performing well, 
 Thou'rt Aleditatiou's constant friend, 
 And strik'st the Heart \vithout a Bell :
 
 (J5» THE WIDOW, &c. 
 
 Cume, lovely May ! 
 
 'lliy leiigthcn'd day 
 Shiill gild once more my native plain ; 
 (4irl inward here, sweet Woodbine Hovv'r ;- 
 Companion of the lonely honr ! 
 
 I '11 turn thee up again.
 
 4(iuTUEaanDuiuiaii!i^(i 
 
 MARKET-NIGHT. 
 
 I. 
 
 ' O WiNDSj howl not so long and loud ; 
 ' Nor with your vengeance arm the snow ; 
 ' Bear hence each heavy-loaded cloud : 
 ' And let the twinkling; Star-beams silow.
 
 ()J. MARKET-NIGHT. 
 
 II. 
 
 Now sweeping rioods rush down the slope. 
 Wide scattering ruin — Stars, shine soon ! 
 No other light my Love can hope : 
 Midnight mil want the joyous Moon. 
 
 III. 
 
 O guardian Spirits ! — Ye that dwell 
 Wliere woods, and pits, and hollow ways. 
 The lone night-trav'Uer's fancy swell 
 With fearful tales of older days, — 
 
 IV. 
 
 Press round him : — guide his willing steed 
 Tl) rough darkness, dangers, currents, snows : 
 ^\'ait where, from shelt'ring thickets freed, 
 The dreary Heath's rude whirlwind blows.
 
 MARKET-NIGHT. 6$ 
 
 V. 
 
 ' Then o'er the Hill with furious sweep 
 ' It rends the elevated tree — 
 ' Sure-footed beast, thy road thou 'It keep ; 
 ' Nor storm nor darkness startles thee ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 ' O blest assurance, (trusty steed,) 
 ' To thee the buried road is known : 
 * Home, all the spur thy footsteps need, 
 ' When loose the frozen rem is thrown. 
 
 VII. 
 
 ' Between the roaring blasts that shake 
 ' The naked elder at tlie door, 
 ' Though not one prattler to me speak, 
 ' Their sleeping sighs delight me more.
 
 66 MARKET-NIGHT. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Sound is their rest : — they little know 
 What pain, what cold, their Father feels ; 
 But dream, perhaps, they see him now. 
 While each the promis'd Orange peels. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Would it were so ! — the fire burns bright. 
 And on the warming trencher gleams ; 
 In Expectation's raptur'd sight 
 How precious his arrival seems ! 
 
 X. 
 
 I 11 look abroad ! — 'tis piercing cold ! — 
 How the bleak wind assails his breast! 
 ■ Yet some faint light mine eyes behold ; 
 Tlie storm is verging o'er the West.
 
 MARKET-NIGHT. 67 
 
 XI. 
 
 ' There shines a Star! — O welcome sight ! — 
 ' Through the thin vapours bright'ning still ! 
 ' Yet, 'twas beneath the fairest night 
 ' The murd'rer stain'd yon lonely Hill. 
 
 XII. 
 
 ' Mercy, kind Heav'n ! such thoughts dispel 
 
 * No voice, no foot is heard around ! 
 
 ' Perhaps he 's near the haunted well ! 
 ' But Dapple knows each inch of ground. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 ' Distressing hour ! uncertain fate ! 
 ' O IMercy, Mercy, guide him home ! 
 
 * Hark ! — then I heard the distant gate, — 
 ' Repeat it, Echo ; quickly, come !
 
 ().S MAIIKET-NIGHT. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 ' One minute now will ease my fears — 
 ' Or still more \vretchc(l must I be ? 
 ' No ; surely Heaven has spar'd our tears : 
 ' I see him, cloth'd in snow ; — 'tis he — 
 
 XV. 
 
 ' Where have you stay'd ? Put down your load : 
 ' How have you borne the storm, the cold ? 
 ' ^Vhat horrors did I not forebode — 
 ' That Beast is worth his weight in gold.' 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Thus spoke the joyful Wife : — then ran 
 In grateful steams to hide her head : 
 Dapple was hous'd, the weary Man 
 With joy glanc'd o'er the Children's bed.
 
 MARKET-KIGHT. 69 
 
 XVII. 
 
 ' What, all asleep ! — so best/ he cried : 
 ' O what a night I 've travell'd through ! 
 ' Unseen, unheard, I might have died : 
 ' But Heaven has brought me safe to you. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 ' Dear Partner of my niglits and days, 
 ' That smile becomes thee ! — Let us then 
 ' Learn, though mishap may cross our Avays, 
 ' It is not ours to reckon when.'
 
 THK 
 
 FAKENHAM GHOST. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 The Lawns were dry in Euston Park ; 
 (Here Truth* inspires my Tale) 
 The lonely footpath, still and dark, 
 Led over Hill and Dale. 
 
 • This Ballad is founded on a fact. The circumstance occurred 
 perhaps long before I was bom, but is still related by my Mother, 
 and some of the oldest inhabitants in that part of the country. 
 
 R. B.
 
 THE FAKENHAM GHOST. 
 
 II. 
 
 Benighted was an ancient Dame, 
 And fearful haste she made 
 To gain the vale of Fakenham;, 
 And hail its Willow shade. 
 
 III. 
 
 Her footsteps knew no idle stops, 
 But follow' d faster still ; 
 And echo'd to the darksome Copse 
 That whisper'd on the Hill ; 
 
 IV. 
 
 Where clam'rous Rooks, yet scarcely hush'd, 
 Bespoke a peopled shade ; 
 And many a wing the foliage brush'd, 
 And hov'ring circuits made.
 
 72 THE FAKENIIAM GHOST, 
 
 V. 
 
 The dappled herd of grazing Deer 
 That sought the shades by day. 
 Now started from her path v/ith fear. 
 And gave the Stranger way. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Darker it grew ; and darker fears 
 Came o'er her troubled mind ; 
 When now, a short quick step she hears 
 Come patting close behind. 
 
 VII. 
 
 8he tum'd ; it stopt ! — nought could she see 
 
 Upon the gloomy plain ! 
 
 But, as she strove the Sprite to flee. 
 
 She heard the same again.
 
 THE FAKENHAM GHOST. 73 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Now terror seiz'd her quaking frame ; 
 For, where the path was bare, 
 The trotting Ghost kept on the same ! 
 She mutter'd many a pray'r. 
 
 IX. 
 Yet once again, amidst her fright 
 She tried what sight could do ; 
 When through the cheating glooms of night, 
 A MONSTER stood in view. 
 
 X. 
 
 Regardless of whate'er she felt. 
 
 It follow'd down the plain ! 
 
 She own'd her sins, and down she knelt, 
 
 And said her pray'rs again. 
 
 s
 
 74 THE FAKENHAM GHOST. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Then on she sped : and Hope grew strong. 
 The white park gate in view ; 
 Which pushing hard, so long it swung 
 That Ghost and all pass'd through. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Loud fell the gate against the post ! 
 Her heart-strings like to crack ; 
 For much she fear'd the grisly Ghost 
 Would leap upon her back. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Still on, pat, pat, the Goblin went. 
 As it had done before ; 
 Her strength and resolution spent, 
 She fainted at the door.
 
 THE FAKENHAM GHOST. 75 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Out came her Husband, much surpris'd : 
 Out came her Daughter dear : 
 Good-natur'd souls ! all unadvis'd 
 Of what they had to fear. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The Candle's gloom pierc'd through the night, 
 Some short space o'er the green ; 
 And there the little trotting Sprite 
 Distinctly might be seen. 
 
 V 
 
 XVI. 
 
 An Ass's Foal had lost its Dam 
 Within the spacious Park ; 
 And simple as the playful Lamb^ 
 Had foUow'd in the Dark. 
 
 £ 2
 
 76 THE FAKENHAM GHOST. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 No Goblin he ; no imp of sin : 
 No crimes had ever known. 
 Thev took the shaggy stranger in. 
 And rear'd him as their own. 
 
 XVIII. 
 His little hoofe would rattle round 
 Upon the Cottage floor : 
 The Matron learn'd to love the sound 
 That frighten'd her before. 
 
 XIX.' 
 
 A favourite the Ghost became ; 
 And 'twas his fate to thrive : 
 And long he liv'd and spread his fame. 
 And kept the joke alive.
 
 THE FAKENHAM GHOST. 77 
 
 XX. 
 
 For many a laugh went througli the vale ; 
 And some conviction too ; — 
 Each thought some other Goblin tale. 
 Perhaps, was just as true.
 
 FRENCH MARINER. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 I. 
 
 An (lid French Mariner am I, 
 Wliom time hath render'd poor and gray : 
 Hear, conquering Britons, ere I die, 
 What anguish prompts me thus to say.
 
 THE FRENCH MARINER. 79 
 
 II. 
 
 I 've rode o'er many a dreadful wave, 
 I 've seen the reeking blood descend : 
 I 've heard the last groans of the brave ; — 
 The shipmate dear, the steady Friend. 
 
 III. 
 
 'Twas when De Grasse the battle join'd. 
 And struck, on April's fatal morn : 
 I left three smiling boys behind. 
 And saw my country's Lily torn. 
 
 IV. 
 There, as I brav'd the storms of Fate, 
 Dead in my arms my brother fell ; 
 Here sits forlorn his \vidow'd Mate, 
 Who weeps whene'er the tale I tell.
 
 so THE FRENCH MARINER. 
 
 V. 
 
 Thy reign, sweet Peace, was o'er too soon ; 
 War, piecemeal, robs me of my joy : 
 P'or, on the blood-stain'd^r*/ of June 
 Donth took my eldest favourite Boy. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The other two enrag'd arose, 
 ' Our country claims our lives,* they said. 
 With them I lost my Soul's repose. 
 That fatal hour my last hope fled. 
 
 VII. 
 With Brueys the proud Nile they sought 
 Where one in ling'ring wounds expir'd ; 
 While yet the other bravely fought • 
 
 The Orient's magazine was fir'd.
 
 THE FRENCH MARINER. 81 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And must I mourn my Country's shame ? 
 And en\aous curse the conquering Foe ? 
 No more I feel that thirst of Fame ; — 
 All I can feel is private woe. 
 
 IX. 
 E'en all the joy that Vict'ry brings, 
 (Her bellowing Guns and flaming pride) 
 Cold, momentary comfort flings 
 Around where weeping Friends reside. 
 
 X. 
 
 Whose blighted bud no Sun shall cheer, 
 Whose lamp of Life no longer shine : 
 Some Parent, Brother, Child, most dear, 
 Who ventur'd, and who died like mine. 
 
 E 5
 
 82 THE FRENCH MARINER. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Proud crested Fiend, the World's worst foe. 
 Ambition ; canst thou boast one deed. 
 Whence no unsightly horrors flow, 
 Xor private peace is seen to bleed ? 
 
 XII. 
 
 Ah ! why do these old Eyes remain 
 To see succeeding mornings rise ! 
 My Wife is dead, my Children slain. 
 And poverty is all my prize. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Vpt shall not poor enfeebled Age 
 
 Breathe forth revenge:— but kneel and pray- 
 
 O God, who seest the Battle's rage. 
 
 Take from men's Hearts that rage away.
 
 THE FRENCH MARINEK. 83 
 
 XIV. 
 From the vindictive tongue of strife. 
 Bill Hatred and false Glory flee ; 
 That babes may meet advancing life. 
 Nor feel the woes that liffht on me.
 
 DOLLY. 
 
 Ingenuous trust, and confidence of Love. 
 
 I. 
 
 Thk Bat began with giddy wing 
 His circuit round the Shed, the Tree ; 
 And clouds of dancing Gnats to sing 
 A summer-night's serenity.
 
 DOLLY. 85 
 
 II. 
 
 Darkness crept slowly o'er the East ; 
 Upon the Barn-roof watch'd the Cat ; 
 Sweet breath'd the ruminating Beast 
 At rest where Dolly musing sat. 
 
 III. 
 
 A simple JMaid, who could employ 
 The silent lapse of Evening mild. 
 And lov'd its solitary joy : 
 For Dolly was Reflection's child. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He who had pledg'd his word to be 
 Her life's dear guardian, far away. 
 The flow'r of Yeoman Cavalry, 
 Bestrode a steed with trappings gay.
 
 M6 DOLLY. 
 
 V. 
 
 And thus from memory's treasur'd sweets. 
 And thus from Love's pure fount she drew 
 That peace, which busy care defeats, 
 And bids our pleasures bloom anew. 
 
 VL 
 
 Six weeks of absence have I borne 
 Since Henry took his fond farewell : 
 The charms of that delightful morn 
 My tongue could thus for ever tell. 
 
 VIL 
 
 He at my window whistling loud, 
 
 Arous'd my lightsome heart to go : 
 
 Day, conqu'ring, climb'd from cloud to cloud j 
 
 The fields all wore a purple glow.
 
 DOLLY. 87 
 
 VIII. 
 
 We stroU'd the bordering flow'rs among : 
 One hand the Bridle held behind ; 
 The other round my waist was flung : 
 Sure never Youth spoke half so kind ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 The rising Lark I could but hear ; 
 And jocund seem'd the song to be : 
 But sweeter sounded in my ear, 
 ' Will Dolly still be true to me !' 
 
 X. 
 
 From the rude Dock my skirt had swept 
 A fringe of clinging burs so green ; 
 Like them our hearts still closer crept. 
 And hook'd a thousand holds unseen.
 
 HS DOLLY. 
 
 XI. 
 
 High o'er the road each branching bough 
 Its globes of silent dew had shed ; 
 And on the pure-wash'd sand below 
 The dimpling drops around had spread. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The sweet-brier op'd its pink-ey'd rose. 
 And gave its fragrance to the gale ; 
 Though modest flow'rs may sweets disclose^ 
 More sweet was Henry's earnest tale. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He scem'd, methought, on that dear morn. 
 
 To pour out all his heart to me ; 
 
 As if, the separation borne. 
 
 The coming hours would joyless be.
 
 DOLLY- 89 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A bank rose high beside the way. 
 And full against the morning Sun ; 
 Of heav'nly blue the Violets gay 
 His hand invited one by one. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The posy with a smile he gave ; 
 I saw his meaning in his eyes : 
 The wither'd treasure still I have ; 
 My bosom holds the fragrant prize. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 With his last kiss he would have vow'd ; 
 But blessings crowding forc'd their way : 
 Then mounted he his Courser proud ; 
 His time was gone, he could not stay.
 
 '»(» DOLLY. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Then first I felt the parting pang ; — 
 Sure the worst pang the Lover feels ! 
 His Horse unruly from me sprang. 
 The pebbles flew beneath his heeLs ; 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Then down the road his vigour tried. 
 His rider gazing, gazing still ; 
 ' My dearest, I 'II be true,' he cried : 
 And, if he lives, I 'm sure he will. 
 
 XIX. 
 Then haste, ye hours, haste Eve and Morn, 
 Yet strew your blessings round my home : 
 Ere Winter's blasts shall strip the thorn, 
 My promis'd joy, my love, will come.
 
 LINES, 
 
 OCCASIONED BY 
 
 A VISIT TO WHITTLEBURY FOREST, 
 
 NORTHAMPTONSHIRE^ 
 In August, 1 800. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO MY CHILDREN. 
 
 I. 
 
 Genius of the Forest Shades ! 
 Lend thy pow'r, and lend thine ear ! 
 A Stranger trod thy lonely glades. 
 Amidst thy dark and bounding Deer ; 
 Inquiring Childhood claims the verse, 
 O let them not inquire in vain ; 
 Be with me while I thus rehearse 
 The glories of thy Sylvan Reign.
 
 92 A VISIT TO 
 
 II. 
 
 Tliy Dells by wintry currents worn. 
 Secluded haunts, how dear to me ! 
 From all but Nature's converse borne, 
 No ear to hear, no eye to see. 
 Their honour'd leaves the green Oaks rear'd. 
 And crown'd the upland's graceful swell ; 
 While answering through the vale was heard 
 Each distant Heifer's tinkling bell. 
 
 III. 
 
 Hail, Greenwood shades, that stretching far. 
 Defy e'en Summer's noontide pow'r. 
 When August in his burning Car 
 Withholds the Cloud, nnthholds the Show'r. 
 The deep-ton'd Loav from either Hill, 
 Down hazel aisles and arches green ; 
 (The Herd's rude tracks from rill to rill) 
 Roar'd echoing through the solemn scene.
 
 WHITTLEBURY FOREST. 93 
 
 IV. 
 
 From my charm'd heart the numbers sprung, 
 Though Birds had ceas'd the choral lay : 
 I pour'd wild raptures from my tongue. 
 And gave delicious tears their way. 
 Then, darker shadows seeking still. 
 Where human foot had seldom stray'd, 
 I read aloud to every Hill 
 Sweet Emma's Love, ' the Nut-bro%vn ]\Iaid.' 
 
 Shaking his matted mane on high, 
 The gazing Colt would raise his head ; 
 Or, tim'rous Doe would rushing fly, 
 And leave to me her grassy bed : 
 Where as the azure sky appear'd 
 Through Bow'rs of every varying form, 
 'Midst the deep gloom methought I heard 
 The daring progress of the storm.
 
 f)l A VISIT TO 
 
 VI. 
 
 How would each sweeping pond'rous bough 
 Resist, when straight the Whirlwind cleaves, 
 Dashing in strength'ning eddies through 
 A roaring wilderness of leaves ! 
 How would the prone descending show'r 
 From the green canopy rebound ! 
 How would the lowland torrents pour ! 
 How deep the pealing thunder sound ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 But Peace was there : no lightnings blaz'd : — 
 No clouds obscur'd the face of heav'n : 
 Down each green op'ning while I gaz'd 
 My thoughts to home, and you, were giv'n. 
 O tender minds ! in life's gay morn 
 Some clouds must dim your coming day : 
 Yet, bootless pride and falsehood scorn, 
 And peace like this shall cheer your way.
 
 WHITTLEBURY FOREST. 93 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Nowj at the dark Wood's stately side. 
 Well pleas'd I met the Sun again ; 
 Here fleeting Fancy travell'd wide ! 
 My seat was destin'd to the IVIain : 
 For, many an Oak lay stretch'd at length. 
 Whose trunks (with bark no longer sheath'd) 
 Had reach'd their full meridian strength 
 Before ycur Father's Father breath'd ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Perhaps they 'U many a conflict brave. 
 And many a dreadful storm defy ; 
 Then groaning o'er the adverse wave 
 Bring home the flag of victory. 
 Go, then, proud Oaks : we meet no more ! 
 Go, grace the scenes to me denied. 
 The white Clifl's round my native shore, 
 And the loud Ocean's swelling tide.
 
 96 A VISIT TO 
 
 X. 
 
 ' Genius of the Forest Shades/ 
 Sweet, from the heights of thy domain, 
 When the gray ev'ning shadow fades. 
 To view the Country's golden grain ! 
 To view the gleaming Village Spire 
 'Midst distant groves unknown to me ; 
 Groves that, grown bright in borrow'd fire, 
 Bow o'er the peopled Vales to thee ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 Where was thy Elfin train, that play 
 
 Round f Fake's huge Oak, their favourite tree. 
 
 Dancing the twilight hours away. 
 
 Why were they not reveal'd to me ? 
 
 Yet, smiling Fairies left behind. 
 
 Affection brought you all to view ; 
 
 To love and tenderness resign'd. 
 
 My heart heav'd many a sigh for you.
 
 WHITTLEBURY FOREST. 97 
 
 XII. 
 
 When Morning still unclouded rose, 
 Refresh'd with sleep and joyous dreams. 
 Where fruitful fields with woodlands close, 
 I trac'd the births of various streams. 
 From beds of Clay, here creeping rills 
 Unseen to parent Ouse would steal ! 
 Or, gushing from the northward Hills, 
 Would glitter through Toves' winding dale. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But ah ! ye cooling springs, farewell ! 
 Herds, I no more your freedom share ; 
 But long my grateful tongue shall tell 
 What brought your gazing stranger there. 
 ' Genius of the Forest Shades, 
 ' Lend thy power, and lend thine ear :' 
 Let dreams sfill lengthen thy long glades. 
 And bring thy peace and silence here. 
 
 F
 
 SONG 
 
 FOR « 
 
 A HIGHLAND DROVER 
 
 RETURNING FROM ENGLAND. 
 
 I. 
 
 Now f;irc-thcc-well, England ; no further I '11 roam ; 
 But follow my shadow that points the way home : 
 Your gay southern Shores shall not tempt me to stay ; 
 For my Maggy 's at home, and my Children at play ; 
 'Tis this makes my Bonnet sit light on my brow, 
 (ii vos my sinews their strength and my bosom its glow. 
 
 II. 
 
 Farewell, IMountaineers ! my companions, adieu ; 
 Soon, many long miles when I 'm sever' d from you.
 
 HIGHLAND DROVER. 99 
 
 I shall miss your white Horns on the brink of the burn, 
 And o'er the rough Heaths, where you '11 never return ; 
 But in brave English pastures you cannot complain. 
 While your Drover speeds back to his Maggy again. 
 
 in. 
 
 O Tweed ! gentle Tweed, as I pass your green vales, 
 iNIore than life, more than Love my tir'd Spirit inhales; 
 There, Scotland, my darling, lies full in my view, 
 With her bare-footed Lasses and Mountains so blue : 
 To the mountainsaway; my heart bounds like the hind; 
 For home is so sweet, and my IVIaggy so kind. 
 
 IV. 
 
 As day after day I still follow my course, 
 And in fancy trace back every stream to its source, 
 Hope cheers me up hiUs, where the road lies before. 
 O'er hills just as high, and o'er tracks of Avild Moor. 
 
 f2
 
 100 HIGHLAND DROVEK. 
 
 The keen polar Star nightly rising to view ; 
 But IVIaggj' 's my Star, just as steady and true. 
 
 V. 
 
 Ghosts of my Fathers ! O heroes> look down ! 
 
 Fix my wandering thoughts on your deeds of renown. 
 For the glory of Scotland veigns warm in my breast. 
 And fortitude groAvs both from toil and from rest : 
 May your deeds and your worth be for ever in view. 
 And may Maggy bear sons not unworthy of you. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Love, why do you urge me so weary and poor ? 
 
 1 cannot step faster, I cannot do more ; 
 
 I 've pass'd silver Tweed ; e'en the Tay flows behind : 
 Yet fatigue I '11 disdain ; — my reward I shall find ; 
 Thou sweet smile of innocence, thou art my prize ; 
 And the joy that will sparkle in IMaggy's blue eyes.
 
 HIGHLAND DHOVER. 101 
 
 VII. 
 
 She'll watch to the southward ; — perhaps she will sigh, 
 Tliat the way is so long, and the IMountains so high ; 
 Perhaps some huge rock in the dusk she may see. 
 And will say in her fondness, ' that surely is he !' 
 Good wife, you're deceiv'd; I 'm still far from my home 
 Go, sleep, my dear ]\Iaggy, — to-morrow I '11 come.
 
 A WORD 
 
 TWO YOUNG LADIES. 
 
 I. 
 
 ^V'HEN tender Rose-trees first receive, 
 ( )n iialf-expanded Leaves, the Shower ; 
 Hope's gayest pictures we believe. 
 And anxious watch each coming flower. 
 
 II. 
 
 Then, if beneath the genial Sun 
 That spreads abroad the full-blowni May, 
 Two infant Stems the rest out-run. 
 Their buds the first to meet the day ;
 
 A WORD TO TWO YOUNG LADIES. 103 
 
 III. 
 
 With joy their op'ning tints we view. 
 While morning's precious moments fly : 
 My pretty Maids, 'tis thus with i/ou, 
 The fond admiring gazer, /. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Preserve, sweet Buds, where'er you be, 
 The richest gem that decks a Wife ; 
 The charm oi female modesty : 
 And let sweet music give it life. 
 
 V. 
 
 Still may the favouring Muse be found : 
 Still circumspect the paths ye tread : 
 Plant moral truths in Fancy's ground ; 
 And meet old Age without a dread.
 
 101 A WOllD TO TWO YOUNG LADIES. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet, ere that comes, while yet ye quaff 
 The cup of Health without a paiu, 
 I '11 shake my gray hairs when you laugh. 
 And when you sing, be young again. 
 
 Both the young Ladies had addressed to me a few complimentary 
 lines (and I am sorry that those of the elder sister were never in 
 my possession) ; in return for which I sent the above. It was re- 
 ceived on the day on which the younger completed her ninth year. 
 Surely it cannot be ascribed to vanity, if, in gratitude to a most 
 amiable family, I here preserve verbatim an effort of a child nine 
 years old. I have the more pleasure in doing it, because I know 
 them to be her own. R. B. 
 
 • Accept, dear Bard, the Muse's genuine thought, 
 « And take not ill the tribute of my heart : 
 
 ' For thee the laureate wreath of praise I '11 bind ; 
 ' Nune that have read thy commendable mind 
 
 • Can let it pass unnoticed — nor can I — 
 
 • For by thy lays I know thy sympathy.' F. P.
 
 OK 
 
 HEARING OF THE TRANSLATION 
 
 OF 
 
 PART OF 'THE FARMER'S BOY' 
 
 INTO LATIN; 
 By thk Rev. Mr. C . 
 
 Hey Giles ! in what new garb art dress'd ? 
 
 For Lads like you methinks a bold one ; 
 
 I 'm glad to see thee so caress'd ; 
 
 But, hark ye ! — don't despise your old one. 
 
 Thou 'rt not the first by many a Boy 
 
 Who 've found abroad good friends to own 'em ; 
 
 Then, in such Coats have shown their joy, 
 
 E'en their orvn Fnthej-s have not known 'em. 
 
 K O
 
 ^-•-^f^^^*'^%;: 
 
 
 NANCY. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 \ov ask mc, dear Nancy, what makes me presume 
 
 Tliat you cherish a secret affection for me ? 
 
 \V''lu'n we see the Flow'rs bud, don't we look for the 
 
 bloom ? 
 Tlicn, sweetest, attend, while I answer to thee.
 
 NANCY. 107 
 
 II. 
 
 When we Young ]Mcn with pastimes tlu* Twilight 
 
 beguile, 
 I watch your plump cheek till it dim])les with joy : 
 And observe, that whatever occasions the smile, 
 You give me a glance^, but provokingly coy. 
 
 III. 
 
 Last mon'ili, when wild strawberries pluckt in the 
 
 grove. 
 Like beads on the tall seeded grass you had strung. 
 You gave me the choicest ; I hop'd 'twas for Love ; 
 And I told you my hopes while the Nightingale sung. 
 
 IV. 
 
 llemember the Viper : — 'twas close at your feet. 
 How you started, and threw yourself into my arms ; 
 Not a Strawberry there was so ripe nor so sweet 
 As the lips which I kiss'd to subdue your alarms.
 
 lOS NANCY. 
 
 V. 
 
 As I puU'tl do\vii the clusters of Nuts for my Fair, 
 What a blow T receiv'd from a strong bending bough ; 
 Though Lucy and other gay lasses were there. 
 Not one of them show'd such compassion as you. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And was it compassion ? — by Heaven 'twas more ! 
 A telltale betrays you ; — that blush on your cheek. 
 Then come, dearest Maid, all your trifling give o'er. 
 And whisper what Candour will teach you to speak. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Can you stain my fair Honour with one broken vow ? 
 Can you say that I 've ever occasion'd a pain ? 
 On Truth's honest base let your tenderness grow ; 
 I swear to be faithful, again and again.
 
 ROSY HANNAH. 
 
 I. 
 
 A Spring, o'erhung with many a flower, 
 The gray sand dancing in its bed, 
 Embank'd beneath a Hawthorn bo\\'er, 
 Sent forth its waters near my head : 
 A rosy Lass apj)roach'd my view ; 
 I caught her blue eye's modest beam : 
 The stranger nodded ' how d' ye do !' 
 And leap'd across the infant stream.
 
 no ROSY HANNAH. 
 
 II. 
 
 The water heedless pass'd away : 
 
 With me her glowing image stay'd : 
 
 I strove, from that auspicious day. 
 
 To meet and bless the lovely Maid. 
 
 I meet her where beneath our feet 
 
 Through downy IMoss the wild Thyme grew ; 
 
 Nor 3Ioss elastic, flow'rs though sweet, 
 
 Match'd Hannah's cheek of rosy hue. 
 
 III. 
 
 I met her where the dark Woods wave, 
 .\nd shaded verdure skirts the plain; 
 And when the pale Moon rising gave 
 New glories to her clouded train. 
 From her sweet cot upon the Moor 
 Our plighted vows to Heaven are flown ; 
 Truth made me welcome at her door. 
 And rosy Hannah is my oAvn.
 
 SONG. 
 THE SHEPHERD 
 
 AND 
 
 HIS DOG ROVER. 
 
 I. 
 
 KovER, awake ! the gray Cock crows ! 
 Come, shake your coat and go with me ! 
 High in the East the green Hill glows ; 
 And glory crowns our shelt'ring Tree.
 
 11^ SONG. 
 
 The Slu'cp expect us at the fold : 
 My faithful Dog, let 's haste away^ 
 And in his earliest beams behold. 
 And hail, the source of cheerful day. 
 
 II. 
 Half his broad orb o'erlooks the Hill, 
 And, darting dowu the Valley flies. 
 At every casement welcome still. 
 The golden summons of the skies. 
 Go, fetch my staff; and o'er the dews 
 Let Echo waft thy gladsome voice : 
 Shall we a cheerful note refuse. 
 When rising Morn proclaims, ' rejoice ?' 
 
 III. 
 
 Now tlien we '11 start ; and thus I '11 sling 
 Our store, a trivial load to bear : 
 Yet, ere night comes, should hunger sting, 
 I 11 not encroach on Rover's share.
 
 SONG. 113 
 
 The fresh breeze bears its sweets along ; 
 The Lark but chides us while we stay : 
 Soon shall the Vale repeat my song ; 
 Go, brush before, away, away.
 
 HUNTING SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 Ye darksome Woods where Echo dwells. 
 Where every bud with freedom swells 
 
 To meet the glorious day : 
 The morning breaks ; again rejoice ; 
 And with old Ring^vood's well-known voice 
 
 Bid tuneful Echo play. 
 
 II. 
 
 We come, ye Groves, ye Hills, we come : 
 The vagrant Fox shall hear his doom, 
 
 And dread our jovial train. 
 The shrill Horn sounds, the courser flies, 
 Wliile every Sportsman joyful cries, 
 
 ' There 's Ring^vood's voice again !'
 
 HUNTING SONG. 115 
 
 III. 
 
 Ye IMeadovv's, hail the coming throng ; 
 Ye peaceful Streams that wind along, 
 
 Kepeat the Hark-away : 
 Far o'er the Downs, ye Gales that sweep. 
 The daring Oak that crowns the steep. 
 
 The roaring peal convey. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The chiming notes of cheerful Hounds, 
 Hark ! how the hollow Dale resounds. 
 
 The sunny Hills how gay. 
 But where 's the note, brave Dog, like thine ? 
 Then urge the Steed, the chorus join, 
 
 'Tis Ringwood Leads the way.
 
 LUCY. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 Thy favourite Bird is soaring still : 
 iMy Lucy, haste thee o'er the dale : 
 The Stream 's let loose, and from the Mill 
 All silent comes the balmy gale ; 
 Yet, so lightly on its way. 
 Seems to whisper ' Holiday.'
 
 SONG. 117 
 
 II. 
 
 The pathway flowers that bending meet, 
 And give the IMeads their yellow hue. 
 The May-bush and the JMeadow-sweet 
 Reserve their fragrance all for you. 
 
 Why then, Lucy, why delay ? 
 
 Let us share the Holiday. 
 
 in. 
 
 Since there thy smiles, my charming Maid, 
 Are with unfeigned rapture seen, 
 To Beauty be the homage paid ; 
 Come, claim the triumph of the Green. 
 
 Here 's my hand, come, come away ; 
 
 Share the merry Holiday. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A promise too my Lucy made, 
 
 (And shall my heart its claim resign?)
 
 118 SONG. 
 
 That ere ]\Iay-flo\ver.s again should fade. 
 Her heart and hand should both be mine. 
 Hark ye, Lucy, this is J\Iay, 
 Love shall crown our Holiday.
 
 WINTER SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 Dkar Boy, throw that Icicle down, 
 And sweep this deep Snow from the door : 
 Old Winter comes on Avith a frown ; 
 A terrible frown for the poor. 
 In a Season so rude and forlorn. 
 How can age, how can infancy bear 
 The silent neglect and the scorn 
 Of those who have plenty to spare ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Fresh broach'd is my Cask of old Ale, 
 Well-tim'd now the frost is set in ; 
 Here 's Job come to tell us a tale, 
 We 11 make him at home to a pin.
 
 120 WINTER SONG. 
 
 \\'liilc my wife and I bask o'er the fire, 
 The roll of the Seasons will prove. 
 That Time may diminish desire. 
 But cannot extinguish true love. 
 
 III. 
 
 the pleasures of neighbourly chat. 
 If you can but keep scandal away. 
 To learn what the world has been at. 
 And what the great Orators say : 
 
 Though the Wind through the crevices sing. 
 And Hail do-wn the chimney rebound ; 
 
 1 'm happier than many a king, 
 
 ^^'llile the Bellows blows Bass to the sound. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Abundance was never my lot : 
 But out of the trifle that 's given. 
 That no curse may alight on my Cot, 
 I '11 distribute the bountv of Heaven !
 
 WINTER SONG. 121 
 
 The fool and the slave gather wealth : 
 But if I add nought to my store. 
 Yet while I keep conscience in health, 
 I 've a IVIine that will never grow poor.
 
 Since this work went to press, an event of much greater 
 imporlaiicc than any to which I have been witness 
 has taken place, to the universal Joy (it is to be 
 hoped) of every inhabitant of Europe. My portion 
 of joy shall be expressed while it is warm. And 
 the reader will do sufficient justice, if he only be- 
 lieves it to be sincere. 
 
 Oct. 10, 1801. 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Halt ! ye Legions, sheathe your Steel ! 
 Blood grows precious ; shed no more ; 
 Cease your toils, your wounds to heal ; 
 L() I beams of IVIercy reach the shore ! 
 From Realms of everlastinsr lieht 
 Tlie favour'd guest of Heaven is come : 
 Prostrate your Banners at the sight. 
 And bear the glorious tidings home.
 
 PEACE. 123 
 
 II. 
 
 The plunging corpse, -with half-clos'd eyes, 
 No more shall stain th' unconscious brine ; 
 Yon pendant gay, that streaming flies. 
 Around its idle Staff shall twine. 
 Behold ! along th' etherial sky 
 Her beams o'er conquering Navies spread ! 
 Peace ! Peace ! the leaping Sailors cry, 
 With shouts that might arouse the dead. 
 
 III. 
 
 Then forth Britannia's thunder pours ; 
 A vast reiterated sound ! 
 From Line to Line the Cannon roars. 
 And spreads the blazing joy around. 
 Return, ye brave ! your Country calls ; 
 Return, return, your task is done : 
 While here the tear of transport falls. 
 To grace your Laurels nobly won.
 
 J 24 PEACE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 .Vlbion Cliffs — from age to age. 
 
 That bear the roaring storms of Heav'n, 
 
 Did ever fiercer Warfare rage. 
 
 Was ever Peace more timely given ! 
 
 Wake ! sounds of Joy : rouse, generous Isle ; 
 
 Let every patriot bosom glow. 
 
 Beauty, resume thy wonted smile. 
 
 And, Poverty, thy cheerful brow. 
 
 V. 
 
 Boast, Britain, of thy glorious Guests ; 
 Peace, Wealth, and Commerce, all thine own : 
 Still on contented Labour rests 
 The basis of a lasting throne. 
 Shout, Poverty ! 'tis Heaven that saves ; 
 Protected Wealth, the chorus raise : 
 Ruler of W'ar, of Winds, and Waves, 
 Accept a prostrate Nation's praise. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 I'niilt.l l.v T. Da»ison, 
 V\ hilerriArt, London.
 
 
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