fiz^Jic^'^- 
 
 •W^ 
 
 Wi^ 
 
 University of California • Berkeley 
 
 From the Library of 
 
 Charles Erskine Scott Wood 
 
 and his Wife 
 
 Sara Bard Field 
 
 Given in Memory of 
 
 JAMES R.CALDWELL 
 


RURAL TALES, 
 
 BALLADS, AND SONGS. 
 
 ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF *THE FARMER'S BOY.* 
 
 THE NINTH EDITION 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PKfNTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, OEME, AND BROWN; 
 BALDWIN, CRADOCF, AND JCY ; DARTON, HARVEY, AND 
 
 darton; J. booker; g. cowie and co. ; and fdwards 
 
 AND KNIBB 
 
 1820. 
 
LONDON: 
 
 FRJNTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Richard and Kate, a Ballad I 
 
 Walter and Jane, a Tale • 15 
 
 The Miller's Maid, a Tale 35 
 
 The Widow to her Hour-Glass 59 
 
 Market Night, a Ballad 63 
 
 The Fakenham Ghost, a Ballad 70 
 
 The French Mariner, a Ballad 78 
 
 Dolly, a Ballad 84 
 
 A Visit to Whittlebury Forest 91 
 
 A Highland Drover, a Song • 98 
 
 A Word to Two Young Ladies. 102 
 
 On hearing of the Translation of Part of * The Farmer's 
 
 Boy' 105 
 
 Nancy, a Song , t • . . 106 
 
 Rosy Hannah,, a Song ] 09 
 
 The Shepherd and his Dog Rover, a Song Ill 
 
 Hunting Song 114 
 
 Lucy, a Song 116 
 
 Winter Song 119 
 
 Peace 122 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THE Poems here offered to the public were chiefly 
 written 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 y * Th^ 
 Fakenham 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 
 confidence as to their moral merit, to the judgment 
 of the public. 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 
 
vi . PREFACE. 
 
 the approbation of my country. I was not prepared 
 for the decided, and I may surely say extraordinary, 
 attention which the Public has shown towards the 
 Farmer's Boy: the consequence has been such as 
 my true friends will rejoice to hear : it has pro- 
 duced 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, perhaps, 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. 
 Loflft. And on this head, I believe every 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 afford 
 him. I speak not of that gentleman as a public 
 
PREFACE. vii 
 
 character, or as a scholar. Of the former I know 
 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 j 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 5 and hope that he will here- 
 after give me my deserts, and no more. 
 
 One piece in this collection will inform the reader 
 
 * 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. George Bloomfield introduced 
 ' The Farmer's Boy' to me. C. L. 
 
viii PREFACE. 
 
 of my most pleasing visit to PFahefield Lodge: 
 bcoks^ solitude, and objects entirely new^, brought 
 pleasures which memory will always cherish. That 
 noble and worthy Family, and all my immediate I 
 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. 
 
 I. 
 
 ^ Come, Goody, stop your humdrum wheel, 
 ; * Sweep up your orts, and get your hat : 
 < Old joys reviv'd once more I feel, 
 * 'Tis Fair-day 3 — ay, and more than that. 
 
RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 The Deliberation. 
 
 11. 
 
 ^ Have you forgot^ Kate, prithee say, 
 ' How many seasons here we've tarry' d ? 
 
 * 'Tis Forty years this very day, 
 
 * Since you and I, old Girl, were married ! 
 
 III. 
 
 * Look out J 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'm resolv'd once more to see 
 
 ' That place where we so often met 3 
 
 * Though few have had more cares than we> 
 
 * We've none just now to make us fret/ 
 
RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 Difficulties. 
 
 Kate scorn'd to damp tlie 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 5 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 V 
 
 VII. 
 
 * Ay Kate, I wool ; — because I know, 
 
 * Though time has been we both could run, 
 
 * Such days are gone and over now 5 — 
 
 * I only mean to see the fun/ 
 
 b2 
 
RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 Consent — Walk to the Fair. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 She straight slipp'd off the Wall and Band *, 
 And laid aside her Lucks and Twitches * : 
 And to the Hutch f she reach'd her hand. 
 And gave him out his Sunday Breeches. 
 
 IX. 
 
 His Mattock he behind the door 
 And Hedging-gloves again replac'd j 
 And look'd across the yellow Moor, 
 And urg'd his tott'ring Spouse to haste. 
 
 The day was up, the air serene. 
 The Firmament without a cloud -, 
 The Bee humm'd o'er the level green. 
 Where knots of trembling Cowslips bow'd. 
 
 * Terms 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. 
 
 XIL 
 
 < When once a giggling Mawther 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 fiU, 
 
 * You shoulder'd me 3 then laugh'd to see 
 
 * Me and my Gotch spin down the HiU.' 
 
 • A pitcher. 
 
RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 Subject continued. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 * Tis true/ she said 3 ^ But here behold, 
 
 * And marvel at the course of Time -, 
 
 * Though you and I have both grown old, 
 ' This Tree is only in its prime !* 
 
 XV. 
 
 * Well, Goody, 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'll be bound they'll all be there.' 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Now friendly nods and smiles had they. 
 From many a kind Fair-going face : 
 And many a pinch Kate gave away. 
 While Richard kept his usual pace. 
 
RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 The Arrival. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 At length arrived amidst the throng. 
 Grand-children bawling hemm'd them round 3 
 And dragged them by the 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 V 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The cordial greetings of the soul 
 Were visible in every face 5 
 Affection, void of all control. 
 Governed with a resistless grace. 
 
RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 Country Sports. 
 
 XX. 
 
 'Twas good to see the honest strife, 
 Which should contribute most to please ; 
 And hear the long-recounted life. 
 Of infant tricks, and happy days. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 But now, as at some nobler places. 
 Among the Leaders 'twas decreed 
 Time to begin the Dicky Races 3 
 More fam'd for laughter than for speed. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Richard look'd on with wondrous glee. 
 And prais'd the Lad who chanc'd to win : 
 ^ Kate, wa'n't I such a one as he ? 
 * As like him, ay, as pin to pin. " 
 
RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 Subject continued. 
 
 I 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 < Full Fifty years are pass'd away 
 
 < Since I rode this same ground about -, 
 
 * Lord ! 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 5 
 
 < Nay, hang me, if I cou'dn't jump.' 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Thus spoke the Ale in Richard's piate^ 
 A very little made him mellow j 
 But still he lov'd his faithful Kate, 
 Who whisper'd thus, * My good old fellow, 
 b5 
 
10 RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 The Departure, 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 * Remember what you promis'd me : 
 
 * And see, the Sun is getting low 5 
 
 * The Children want an hour, ye see, 
 ' To talk a bit before we go.' 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Like youthful Lover most complying 
 He turn'd and chuckt her by the chin : 
 Then all across the green grass hyeing. 
 Right merry faces, all akin. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Their farewell quart, beneath a tree 
 
 That droop'd its branches from above ; 
 
 Awak'd the pure felicity 
 
 That waits upon Parental Love. 
 
RICHARD AND KATE. 1 1 
 
 Parental and filial Feelings. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Kate view'd her blooming Daughters rounds, 
 And Sons, who shook her withered hand : 
 Her features spoke what joy she found -, 
 But utterance had made a stand. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The Children toppled on the green. 
 And bowl'd theW Jairings down the hill j 
 Richard with pride beheld the scene. 
 Nor could he for his life sit still. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 A Father's unchecked feelings gave 
 
 A tenderness to all he said ; 
 
 * My Boys, how proud am I to have 
 
 < My name thus round the country spread ! 
 
J 2 RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 An old Man's Joy. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 * Through all my days I've labour'd hard^ 
 ' And could of pains and crosses tell j 
 
 ' But this is Labour's great reward, 
 
 * To meet ye thus, and see ye well. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 ' My good old Partner, when at home, 
 
 * Sometimes with wishes mingles tears j 
 
 * Goody, says I, let what wool come, 
 
 * We've nothing for them but our pray'rs. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 ' May you be all as old as I, 
 
 ' And see your Sons to manhood grow -, 
 
 ' And, many a time before you die, 
 
 * Ee just as pleased as I am now.* 
 
RICHARD AND KATE. la 
 
 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 3 
 A witness which he could not stop, 
 A witness which all hearts believe. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Thou, Filial Piety, wert there 5 
 And round the ring, benignly bright, 
 Dwelt in the luscious half-shed tear. 
 And in the parting word— Good Night, 
 
14 RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 The Return Home. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 With thankful Hearts and strengthen' d Love, 
 The poor old Pair, supremely blest. 
 Saw the Sun sink behind the grove, 
 And gain*d once more their lovely 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 Mirth she paid her vows 5 
 And Echo mock'd her as she call'd her Cows. 
 
10 WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 Tufts of green Broom, that full in blossom vied. 
 And grac'd with spotted gold the upland side, 
 The level fogs o'erlook*d ; too high to share ; 
 So lovely 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; 
 Where, 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-roof d Shed, in ranges where 
 Hung many a well-turn'd Shoe and glitt'ring Share; 
 Where Walter, as the charmer tripp'd along. 
 Would stop his roaring Bellows and his Song. — 
 
 Dawn 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 Walter's 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 5 
 
 When, at the Goal that bounds our prospects here, 
 
 Jane's widow'd Mistress ended her career : 
 
 Blessings attended her divided store. 
 
 The Mansion sold, (Jane's peaceful home no more,) 
 
 A distant village own'd her for its Queen, 
 
 Another service, and another scene 3 
 
 But could another scene so pleasing prove. 
 
 Twelve weary miles from Walter and from Love ? 
 
18 WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 The Lover's Journey. v. 41. 
 
 The Maid grew thoughtful : yet to fate resigned. 
 Knew not the worth of what she'd left behind. 
 He when at eve releas'd from toil and heat, 
 Soon 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 Wat.tfr hied 
 O'er hill and dale. Affection for his guide ; 
 O'er the brown Heath his pathless journey lay. 
 Where screaming Lapwings hail'd the op'ning day. 
 High rose the Sun, the anxious lover sigh'd 3 
 His slipp'ry soles bespoke the dew was dried ; 
 Her last farewell hung fondly on his tongue 
 As o'er the tufted Furze elate he sprung j 
 Trifling impediments 5 his heart was light. 
 For Love and Beauty glow'd in Fancy's sight ; 
 
WALTER AND JANE. 19 
 
 V. 59. Self-denial. 
 
 And soon lie gaz'd on Jane's enchanting face. 
 Renewed 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 day-cold damp of doubts and fears arose ; 
 Clouds, whichinvolve, 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 5 
 He 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 5 the wan Moon circling found 
 His evenings cheerless, and his rest unsound 5 
 And saw th' unquenched flame his bosom swell : 
 What were his doubts, thus let the Story tell. 
 
20 WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 The renewed Journey. v. 77. 
 
 A month's sharp conflict only serv'd to prove 
 The pow'r^ as well as truths of Walter's love. 
 Absence more strongly on his mind pourtray'd 
 His own sweet, injured, unoffending Maid. 
 Once more he'd go 5 fuU resolute awhile. 
 But heard his native bells on every stile j 
 The sound recall'd him with a powerful charm. 
 The Heath wide open'd^ and the day was warm j 
 There, where a bed of tempting green he found. 
 Increasing anguish weigh'd him to the ground. 
 His well-grown limbs the scattered Daisies press'd. 
 While his clench'd hand fell heavy on his breast. 
 
 ^ Why do I go in cruel sport to say, 
 ^ ' I love thee, Jane, appoint the happy day V 
 ^ Why seek her sweet ingenuous reply, 
 ' Then grasp her hand and proffer — poverty ? 
 ' Why, if I love her and adore her name, 
 ^ Why act like time and sickness on her frame ? 
 
WALTER AND JANE. n 
 
 V. 95. Love and Prudence. 
 
 ' Why should my scanty pittance nip her prime, 
 
 ^ And chase away the Rose before its time ? 
 
 ' I*m young, 'tis true j the world beholds me free 3 
 
 ^ Labour ne*er show'd a frightful face to me -, 
 
 ' Nature's first wants hard labour should supply j 
 
 ' 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 5 
 
 * Then if in rags — But, O my heart, forbear, — 
 ' I love the Girl, and why should I despair ? 
 
 ' And that I love her all 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 3 
 
 ^ Jane pass'd that instant -, mischief came of course : 
 
 ' I drove the nail awry, and lam'd the Horse ; 
 
22 WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 Recollections. v. 113, 
 
 ' The poor beast limp'd : I bore a Master's frown, 
 
 * A thousand times I "wish'd the wound my own. 
 
 ' When to these tangling thoughts I've been resign'd, 
 
 * Fury or languor has possessed my mind, 
 
 ' All eyes have star'd I've blown a blast so strong 3 
 ' Forgot to smite at all, or smote too long. 
 ' If at the Ale-house door, with 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 I 
 
 * Yet what are jeers } the bubbles of an hour 5 
 
 ' Jane knows what Love can do, and feels its powV 3 
 
 ^ In her mild eye fair Truth her meaning tells 5 
 
 ' 'Tis not in looks like hers that falsehood dwells. 
 
 ^ As water shed upon a dusty way 
 
 ' I've seen midst downward pebbles devious strays 
 
 < If kindred drops an adverse channel keep, 
 
 ^ The crystal friends toward each other creep 5 
 
WALTER AND JANE. 23 
 
 V. 131. 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 Jane would be my bride 5 
 ' Shall coward fears then turn the bliss aside V 
 
 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-blown 
 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, 
 Puff'd gently back the warm assailing breeze. 
 
24 WALTER AND JANE. ^ 
 
 I 
 
 Resentment and Tenderness, v. 149. 
 
 ' I've travell'd all these weary miles with pain, 
 
 * To see my 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 buoy'd her spirits up with maiden pride ; 
 Disclaim' d her love, e'en while she felt the sting -, 
 
 * What, come for Walters sake !* 'Tv^^s 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 
 
 V. 167. Visit to a Friend. 
 
 Ye, who still bow to Love's almighty sway. 
 What could true passion, what could Walter say • 
 Age, tell me true, nor shake your locks in vain, 
 Tread back your paths, and be in love again 5 
 In your young days did such a favouring hour 
 Show you the littleness of Wealth and Pow'r, 
 Adventurous 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 3 
 ' My dearest Jane, think of me as you may* — 
 Thus — still 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 Hindis, 
 
 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 3 who to the brink updrew 
 c 
 
26 WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 The Expostulation. v. 185, 
 
 The pond'rous Bucket as they reach' d the well. 
 And scarcely with exhausted breath could tell 
 How welcome to her Cot the blooming Pair, 
 O'er whom she watch'd with a maternal care. 
 ^ What ails thee, Jane V the wary Matron cried : 
 With 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 di«play'd 
 And march'd around ; while thus the Matron said : 
 ' Jane has been weeping, Walter ;— prithee why ? 
 ' Ive seen her laugh, and dance, but never cry. 
 
WALTER AND JANE. 27 
 
 T. 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 3 
 
 ' I say then. Boy, you have not us'd her well.' 
 
 Jane felt for Walter; shard 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 5 
 
 ' 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 : 
 
^8 WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 The Victory. ▼. 221. 
 
 ' And Care defied ; who not one pain could give, 
 
 ' Till the thought came of how we were to live 3 
 
 ^ And then Love plied his arrows thicker still : 
 
 ^ And prov'd victorious ; — as he always will. 
 
 ' We brav'd Life's storm together 5 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 T 
 
 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. 
 Her Lover took a more decided part : — 
 (O ! *twas the very Chord that touched his heart) -, — 
 Alive to the best feelings man can prize, 
 A Bridegroom's transport sparkled in his eyes > 
 
WALTER AND JANE. 99 
 
 V. 239. The Confession. 
 
 Love, conquering power, with unrestricted range 
 Silenc'd the arguments of Time and Change 5 
 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 3 
 ' Alone I might have reason'd till I died. 
 I * I caus'd those tears of Jane's — but as they fell 
 
 * How much I felt none l^ut ourselves can tell. 
 
 * While dastard fears withheld me from her sight, 
 
 ' Sighs reign'd by day and hideous dreams by night j 
 ' Twas then the Soldier's plume and rolling Drum 
 
 * Seem'd for a while to strike my sorrows dumb 5 
 
 * To fly from Care then half-resolv'd I stood, 
 
 ^ And without horror mus'd on fields of blood, 
 
30 WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 Unexpected Visit. 
 
 ' But hope prevail'd. — Be then the sword resign'd 5 
 * And I'll make Shares for those that stay behind, 
 ^ 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 pictured in his face. 
 Around with silent reverence they stood 3 
 A 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, 
 Unmov'd by Summer flowers and cloudless skies. 
 Pass slowly by his Gate ; his book resign'd. 
 He watch'd their stepe, and foUow'd far behind. 
 Bearing 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. 31 
 
 ▼. 275. The Difficulty removed. 
 
 He found what oft the generous bosom seeks, 
 In the Dame's courtesies and Jane's blushing cheeks, 
 That consciousness of Worth, that freeborn Grace, 
 Which waits on Virtue in the meanest place. 
 
 ' Young Man, I'll not apologize to you, 
 ' Nor name intrusion, for my news is true 3 
 ' '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'll 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 they knew not how 3 
 
S« WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 How little of outward Good suffices for Happiness. v. 2y3 
 
 Perils and Power while humble minds forego. 
 Who gives them half a Kingdom gives them woe 5 
 Comforts may be procur'd and want defied, 
 Heav'ns ! with how small a sum, when right applied ! 
 Give Love and honest Industry their way. 
 Clear but the Sun-rise of Life's little day. 
 Those we term poor shall oft that 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 3 
 E*en as the Red-breast shelt'ring in a bower. 
 Mourns the short darkness 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. 
 
WALTER AND JANE. 33 
 
 ▼ . 31 J . Joy above Wealth. 
 
 So did the Youth 3 — the treasure straight became 
 An humble servant to Love's sacred flame j 
 Glorious subjection ! — ^Thus his silence broke : 
 Joy gave him words j 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 5 
 ' But her true love is still my greatest prize. 
 ' Long as I live, when this bright day comes round, 
 ' Beneath my Roof your noble deeds shall sound 3 
 ' But, first, to make my gratitude appear, 
 ^ 1*11 shoe your Honour's Horses for a Year j 
 ' If clouds should threaten when your Corn is down, 
 ' I'U lend a hand, and summon half the town 5 
 ' If good betide, I'D. 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 
 
34 WALTER AND JANE 
 
 Grateful Frankness. v. 329. 
 
 ' Yet, Sir, though fortune frown'd when I was born, 
 
 ' Let '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 Maid shall meet you with a smile -, 
 
 ' Long may you live"^ — the wish like lightning flew 5 
 
 By each repeated as the squire withdrew. 
 
 ' Long may you live,' his feeling heart rejoin'd ^ 
 
 Leaving well pleas'd such happy Souls behind, 
 
 Hope promised fair to cheer them to the end ; 
 
 With Love their guide, and Goody for their friend. 
 
THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 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 with his praise : 
 
56 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 The Tempest. v. 5. 
 
 His Wife, the Doctress of the neighboring Poor*, 
 Drew constant prayVs 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 j the foremost cloud 
 Sprinkled the bubbling Pool 5 and thunder loud. 
 Though distant yet, menac'd the country round. 
 And fill'd the Heavens with its solemn sound. 
 Who can retire to rest when tempests lour } 
 Nor wait the issue of the coming hour ? 
 Meekly resign*d she sat, in anxious pain 3 
 He fill'd his pipe, and listened to the rain 
 That batter d furiously their strong abode, 
 Roar'd in the Dam, and lash'd the pebbled road : 
 
 ♦ This village and the poor of this neighbourhood know what it 
 is to have possessed such a blessing, aud feel at this moment what 
 it is to lose it by death. C. L. 
 
 Troslon, I3th of September, 1801. 
 
THE MILLER'S MAID. 37 
 
 r. 19. The young Stranger. 
 
 When, mingled with the storm, eonfus'd and wild. 
 They heard, or thought they heard, a screaming Child : 
 The voice approached 5 and *midst the thunder's roar. 
 Now loudly begg'd for Mercy at the door. 
 
 Mercy was there: the Miller heard the call 3 
 His door he open'd j when a sudden squall 
 Drove in a wretched Girl j who weeping stood. 
 Whilst the cold rain dripp'd from her in a flood. 
 With kind officiousness the tender Dame 
 Rous'd up the dying embers to a flame 5 
 Dry clothes procured, and cheer'd her shiv'ring guest, 
 And sooth'd the sorrows of her infant breast. 
 But as she stript her shoulders, lily-white. 
 What 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 eyes. 
 
38 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 The simple Story. v. 37. 
 
 And seem*d fatigu'd beyond her strength and years, 
 ' Sleep, Child, (he said) and wipe away your tears.' 
 They watch'd her slumbers till the storm was done 5 
 When thus the generous Man again begun : 
 '' See flutt'ring sighs that rise against her will, 
 
 < And agitating dreams disturb her still ! 
 
 * Dame, we should know before we go to rest, 
 
 ' Whence comes this Girl, and how she came distrest. 
 
 * Wake her and ask 3 for she is sorely bruised : 
 
 * 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 ? 
 
 < Who gave you allthose wounds your shoulders show ? 
 ' Where are your parents ? Whither would you go ?' 
 
 The Stranger bursting into tears, look'd pale, 
 And this the purport of her artless tale : 
 
 ' I have no Parents 3 and no friends beside j 
 ' I well remember when my mother died : 
 
THE MILLER'S MAID. 39 
 
 V. 55. The simple Story continued. 
 
 ' My Brother cried -, and so did I that day : 
 
 * We had no Father -, — he was gone away 5 
 
 ' That night we left our home new clothes to wear : 
 ' The Workhouse found them 5 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, 
 
 ' My Mistress 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 I crept, 
 
 ^ And always cried at night before I slept. 
 
 ' This morning I offended j and I bore 
 
 ' A cruel beating, worse than all before. 
 
40 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 The Child becomes one of the Family. v. 73. 
 
 * Unknown to all the House I ran away -, 
 
 ' And thus far travell'd through the sultry day 5 
 
 ' And, O don't send me back I 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 5 
 
 He mutter'd, glorying in the work begun, 
 
 ' Well done, my little Wench 5 'twas nobly done !* 
 
 Then said, with looks more cheering than the fire, 
 
 And feelings such as Pity can inspire, 
 
 ' My house has childless been this many a year 5 
 
 ' While you deserve it you shall tarry here.' 
 
 The Orphan mark*d the ardour of his eye. 
 
 Blest his kind words, and thank'd him with a sigh. 
 
 Thus was the sacred compact doubly seal'd 3 
 Tlius were her spirits rais'd, her bruises heal'd : 
 Thankful, and cheerful too, no more afraid, 
 Thus little Phoebe was the Miller's maid. 
 
THE MILLER'S MAID. 41 
 
 .91. The new Comer. 
 
 Grateful they found her ; patient of control : 
 A most bewitching gentleness of soul 
 Made 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, 
 ^he Miller from a Market 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 PJwehe^ whom he lov'd so dear, 
 ^ I have brought you home a Husband, Girl 5 d'ye 
 
 hear ? 
 ' He begg'd for work 3 his money seem'd but scant : 
 j * Those that wiU 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. 10?. 
 
 Now throbb'd her hearty — a new sensation quite, — 
 
 Whene'er the comely Stranger was in sight : 
 
 For he at once assiduously strove 
 
 To please so sweet a Maid, and win her love. 
 
 At every corner stopped her in her way -, 
 
 And saw fresh beauties opening ev'ry day. 
 
 He took delight 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 3 and wish'd to know 
 
 More of the honest Youth, whose manly brow 
 
 She verily believ'd was Truth's own throne. 
 
 And all his words as artless as her own : 
 
 Most true she judg'd 3 yet, long the Youth forbore 
 
 Divulging where, and how, he liv'd before 3 
 
 And seem'd to strive his History to hide. 
 
 Till fair Esteem enlisted on his side, 
 
THE MILLER'S MAID. 43 
 
 T. 125. Inquiry. — Ingenious Explanation. 
 
 The Miller saw, and mention'd, 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 3— 
 
 * 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 3 and Phcebe 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 Phcebe's eyes 3 
 
 * But be explicit, Boy, and deal with honour ; 
 ' I feel my happiness depend upon her. 
 
44 
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 
 
 
 The little History. 
 
 
 V. 143. 
 
 * When here 
 
 1 you came you*d sorrow on 
 
 your 
 
 brow 5 
 
 * And I've forborne to question you till now. 
 
 ' First, then, say what thou art.* He instant bow'd^ 
 
 And thus, in Phoebe*s hearing, spoke aloud : 
 
 ^ Thus far experienc'd. Sir, in you I find 
 
 ' All that is generous, fatherly, and kindj 
 
 ^ And while you look for proofs of real worth 
 
 ^ You'll not regard the meanness of my birth. 
 
 * When, pennyless and sad, you met with me, 
 ^ I'd just escap'd the dangers of the Sea 5 
 
 ' Resolved to try my fortune on the shore : 
 
 * To get my bread j and trust the waves no more : 
 
 * Having no home, nor Parents, left behind, 
 ' I'd all my fortune, all my friends, to find. 
 
 * Keen disappointment wounded me that morn : 
 
 * For, trav'lling near the spot where I was born, 
 ' I at the well-known door where I was bred 
 
 ' Inquir'd who still was living, who was dead : 
 
THE MILLER'S MAID. 45 
 
 V. 161. 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 5 
 
 ^ She caird me Brother : — ^which I heard with pride, 
 
 ^ Though now suspect we are not so alHed. 
 
 * Thus much I learnt 3 (no more the churls would say ; ) 
 ' She went to service, and she ran away, 
 
 ' And scandal added' — ' Hold !' the Miller cried. 
 
 And, in an instant, stood at Phcebe^s side 3 
 
 For he observed, while listening to the tale. 
 
 Her spirits falter'd, and her cheeks turn'd pale 3 
 
 Whilst her clasp'd hands descended to her knee. 
 
 She sinking whisper'd forth, ^ O God, 'tis heT 
 
 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. 
 
 V. 179. 
 
 Awhile insensible she still appear'd j 
 
 
 But, ^ my Brother,' was distinctly heard : 
 Th' astonished youth now held her to his breast 3 
 And tears and kisses soon explained 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. 
 They match'd the incidents of jogging time 3 
 And prov'd that, when with Tyranny opprest. 
 Poor Phoebe groan'd with wounds and broken rest, 
 George felt no less 3 was harass'd and forlorn 3 
 A rope's end foUow'd him both night and morn. 
 And in that very storm when Phcebe fled. 
 When the rain drench'd her yet unshelter'd head 3 
 That very Storm he on the Ocean brav'd. 
 The Vessel founder'd, and the Boy was sav'd ! 
 Mysterious Heaven ! — ^nd O with what delight — 
 She told the happy issue of her flight : 
 
THE MILLER'S MAID. 47 
 
 V. 197» 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^ 
 
 'Twas Heavns highWill 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 ? — howj prithee say : 
 
 * Canst thou forego, or cast that name away V 
 
 ^ No living proofs have 1/ the Youth reply*d, 
 ' That we by closest ties are not allied ; 
 ' But in my memory live, and ever will, 
 
 * A mother's dying words — I hear them still 
 
 ' She said, to one who watch'd her parting breath, 
 ' ' DonH separate the Children at my Death, 
 
48 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 Anxiety. v. 315. 
 
 ' * They* re not both mine : but — ' here the scene was 
 closed, 
 
 * She died ; and left us helpless and expos'd 5 
 
 ' 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 
 Hear from the Oracle their half-told fate 
 With more religious fear^ or more suspense. 
 Than Phahe now endur'd : — for every sense 
 Became absorb'd in this unwelcome theme ; 
 Nay, every meditation^ every dream, 
 Th' inexplicable sentence held to view, 
 
 * They* re not both mme^ 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 appeared 5 
 
 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 MILLER'S MAID. 4^ 
 
 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' unraveU'd secret robb'd him of his bliss. 
 
 Health'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 Phcehe^s mind : 
 They lov'd them both 3 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 
 I rear'd, 
 (A time when George and Phcehe might be spar'd) 
 
60 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 Eager Expectation. v. '^49. 
 
 Their birth-place they should visit once again. 
 To try with joint endeavours to obtain 
 From Record, or Tradition, what might be 
 To chain, 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 Maj/ long, or wish away its flowers ; 
 With mutual sighs both fann'd the wings of Time ; 
 As we climb HiUs 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 hiU, 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.26r. The Old Soldier. 
 
 His bending Blackthorn on the threshold prest, 
 Survey'd the windward clouds^ and hop'd the best. 
 Phcebej attir'd with every modest grace^ 
 While Health and Beauty re veil' d in her face. 
 Came forth : but soon evinc'd an absent mind. 
 For back she turn'd for something left behind j 
 Again the same, till George grew tir'd of home. 
 And peevishly exclaim'd, ' Come, Phcehe, come' 
 Another hinderance yet he had to feel : 
 As from 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 : 
 < My 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 
 
52 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 The Soldier's Tale. v. 285. 
 
 To banish hunger from his shatter'd frame j 
 And close behind her, lo, the Miller came. 
 With 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 5 
 Threw down his Wallet, and made bare his head 5 
 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 5 
 ' My age discharg'd me when I came on shore. 
 
 ' My Wife, I've 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 5 
 
 < The Bounty tempted me : — she had it all : 
 
 < We parted 3 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 spot, 
 ^ Perhaps Old Grainger will be quite forgot.' 
 
 All eyes beheld young George with wonder start 3 
 Strong were the secret bodings of his heart 3 
 Yet not indulg'd : for he with doubts survey'd 
 By turns the Stranger, and the lovely Maid. 
 ' Had you no Children V — ^ Yes, young Man, I'd two : 
 
 * A Boy, if still he lives, as old as you : 
 
 ' Yet not my own 3 but likely so to prove 3 
 ' Though but the pledge of an unlawful Love : 
 ' I cherish'd him^ to hide a Sister^ s 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 3 — perhaps to find 
 ' The only treasure that I left behind. 
 
54 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 » 
 
 The DiscovcaTT. v. 321. 
 
 ' Such kindly thoughts my fainting hopes revive : 
 ' Phoebe, my Cherub, art thou still alive V 
 
 Could Nature hold ! — Could youthful Love forbear I 
 George clasp*d the wond'ring Maid, and whisper'd, 
 
 * There I 
 
 * You^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 flowV. 
 
 * Tis George that speaks 5 thou'lt bless the happy 
 
 * hour ! — 
 
 ' Nay, be composed 3 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. 337. The happy Relations now found. 
 
 O'er his rough cheeks the tears profusely spread j 
 Such as fools say become not Men to shed 5 
 Past hours of bliss, regenerated charms. 
 Rose, 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 3 
 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 Keav'n. 
 But now, as from a dream his Reason sprung. 
 And heartiest greetings dwelt upon his tongue 3 
 The sounding Kitchen floor at once receiv'd 
 The happy group, with all their fears reliev'd 3 
 ^ Soldier/ he cried, *^ you've found your Girl, 'tis true : 
 * But suffer me to be a Father too 3 
 
.^6 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 The Bliss of disinterested Benevolence. 
 
 ' 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 3 — and this is my reward ! 
 
 ^ Here sit you down 3 recount your perils o'er : 
 
 * Henceforth be this your home ; and grieve no more : 
 
 * Plenty hath shower'd her dewdrops on my head y 
 ' Care visits not my Table, nor my Bed. 
 
 ' My heart's warm wishes thus then I fulfil : 
 
 * My Dame and I can live without the Mill : 
 
 * George, take the whole 3 111 near you still remain, 
 
 * To guide your judgment in the choice of grain : 
 
 ' In Virtue's path commence your prosperous life, 
 
 < And from my hand receive your worthy Wife. 
 
 < Rise, Phoebe ; rise, my Girl ! — kneel not to me 3 
 ' But to THAT Pow'r who interpos'd for thee. 
 
 ' Integrity hath mark'd your favourite Youth 3 
 
 * Fair budding Honour^ Constancy, and Truth : 
 
THE MILLER'S MAID. 57 
 
 V. 373. Perfect Content : Hopes and Prospects of Goodness. 
 
 ' Go to his arms 3 — and may unsullied joys 
 
 * Bring smiling round me^ rosy Girls and Boys ! 
 
 < 1 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 !' 
 
 d5 
 
WIDOW TO HER HOUR-GLASS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Come, friend, I'll turn thee up again : 
 Companion of the lonely hour ! 
 Spring thirty times hath fed with rain 
 And cloth'd with leaves my humble bower. 
 
60 THE WIDOW TO 
 
 Since thou hast stood 
 
 In frame of wood. 
 On Chest or Window by my side 5 
 At every Birth still thou wert near. 
 Still spoke thine admonitions clear — 
 
 And when my Husband died. 
 
 II. 
 
 I've often watch'd thy streaming sand 
 And seen the growing Mountain 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 3 
 The sand above more hollow grew. 
 Like days and years still filt'ring through. 
 
 And mingling joy and pain. 
 
HER HOUR-GLASS. 61 
 
 • m. 
 
 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 3 
 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 Meditation's constant friend. 
 And strik'st the Heart without a Bell : 1 
 
62 THE WIDOW, &c. 
 
 Come, lovely May I 
 
 Thy lengthen'd day 
 Shall gild once more my native plain j 
 Curl inward here, sweet Woodbine flow'r 3- 
 Companion of the lonely hour ! 
 
 I'll turn thee up again. 
 
MARKET-NIGHT. 
 
 * O WiNDS^ howl not so long and loud 3 
 
 * Nor with your vengeance arm the snow 3 
 ' Bear hence each heavy-loaded cloud : 
 
 * And let the twinkling Star-beams glow. 
 
64 MARKET-NIGHT. 
 
 II. 
 
 ^ Now sweeping floods rush down the slope, 
 ' Wide scattering ruin — Stars, shine soon ! 
 ' No other light my Love can hope : 
 ' Midnight will want the joyous Moon, 
 
 III. 
 
 ^ O guardian Spirits ! — ^Ye that dwell 
 ' Where woods, and pits, and hollow ways, 
 ' The lone night-trav'ller's fancy swell 
 ' With fearful tales of older days, — 
 
 IV. 
 
 * Press round him : — guide his willing steed 
 ' Through darkness, dangers, currents, snows : 
 ' Wait where, from shelt'ring thickets freed, 
 ' The dreary Heath's rude whirlwind blows. 
 
MARKET-NIGHT. 65 
 
 I 
 
 ' Then o'er the Hill with furious sweep 
 ' It rends the elevated tree — 
 ^ Sure-footed beast^ thy road thou'lt keep 5 
 ' Nor storm nor darkness startles thee ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 ^ O blest assurance^ (trust)' steeds) 
 ' To thee the buried road is known : 
 ' Home, all the spur thy footsteps need^ 
 ^ When loose th^ frozen rein is thrown. 
 
 VII. 
 
 ' Between the roaring blasts that shake 
 ' The naked elder at the door, 
 ^ Though not one prattler to me speak, 
 ' Their sleeping sighs delight me more. 
 
66 MARKET-NK-HT. 
 
 * 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 3 
 ^ In Expectation's raptur'd sight 
 ' How precious his arrival seems ! 
 
 X, 
 
 * 111 look abroad ! — 'tis piercing cold ! — 
 ' How the bleak wind assails his breast ! 
 
 * Yet some faint light mine eyes behold 3 . 
 ' The storm is verging o'er the West. 
 
I MARKET-NIGHT. 67 
 
 XL 
 
 ^ There shines a Star ! — O welcome sight ! — 
 ^ Through the thin vapours bright' ning still I 
 ^ Yet, 'twas beneath the fairest night 
 ' The murd'rer stain'd yon lonely Hill. 
 
 xn. 
 
 ' Mercy, kind Heav'n ! such thoughts dispel ! 
 ' No voice, no foot is heard around I 
 ' Perhaps he's near the haunted well ! 
 ' But Dapple knows each inch of ground. 
 
 xni. 
 
 ' Distressing hour ! uncertain fate ! 
 ' O Mercy, Mercy, guide him home ! 
 ^ Hark ! — then I heard the distant gate, — 
 ' Repeat it, Echo 3 quickly, come ! 
 
68 MARKET-NIGHT. 
 
 XIV. 
 ' One minute now will ease my fears — 
 ' Or still more wretched must I be ? 
 * No ', surely Heaven has spar'd our tears : 
 ' I see him J cloth'd in snow ; — ^tis he— 
 
 XV. 
 
 ' Where have you stay'd ? Put down your load : 
 ' How have you borne the storm, the cold ? 
 ' What 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-NIGHT. 69 
 
 XVII. 
 
 ' What^ all asleep I — 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 nights and days, 
 * That smile becomes thee ! — Let us then 
 ' Learn, though mishap may cross our ways, 
 ^ It is not ours to reckon when.' 
 
FAKENHAM GHOST. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 I. 
 
 The Lawns were dry in Euston Park 3 
 (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 born, but is still related by my Mother, 
 and some of the oldest inhabitants in that part of the country. 
 
 R. B. 
 
THE FAKENHAM GHOST. 71 
 
 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 followed faster still 3 
 And echo'd to the darksome Copse 
 That whisper' d on the Hill 3 
 
 IV. 
 
 AV^here clamVous Rooks^ yet scarcely hush'd. 
 Bespoke a peopled shade 5 
 And many a wing the foliage brush'd, 
 And hov'ring circuits made. 
 
THE FAKENHAM GHOST. 
 
 The dappled herd of grazing Deer 
 That sought the shades by day^ 
 Now started from her path with fear, 
 And gave the Stranger way. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Darker it grew 3 and darker fears 
 Came o'er her troubled mind 3 
 When now, a short quick step she hears 
 Come patting close behind. 
 
 VII. 
 
 She turn'd 3 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 seized 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 5 
 
 When through the cheating glooms of night, 
 
 A MONSTKR stood in view. 
 
 X. 
 
 Regardless of whatever she felt. 
 It foUow'd down the plain ! 
 She own'd her sins, and down she knelt, 
 And said her pray'rs again. 
 E 
 
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 3 
 Her strength and resolution spent. 
 She fainted at the door. 
 
THE FAKENHAM GHOST. 75 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Out came her Husband^, much surprised : 
 Out came her Daughter dear : 
 Good-natur'd souls ! all unadvis'd 
 Of what they had to fear. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The Candle's gleam pierc'd through the night. 
 Some short space o'er the green j 
 And there the little trotting Sprite 
 Distinctly might be seen. 
 
 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. 
 
 E 2 
 
76 THE FAKENHAM GHOST. 
 
 xvir. 
 
 No Goblin he 3 no imp of sin ; 
 No crimes had ever known. 
 They took the shaggy stranger in. 
 And rear'd him as their own. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 His little hoofs 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 5 
 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 through the vale ; 
 And some conviction too ; — 
 Each thought some other Goblin tale. 
 Perhaps, was just as true. 
 
FRENCH MARINER. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 I. 
 
 An old French Mariner am 1, 
 Whom time hath render'd poor and gray -. 
 Hear, conquering Britons j 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 3— 
 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 3 
 Here sits forlorn his widow'd Mate, 
 Who weeps whene'er the tale I tell. 
 
80 THE FRENCH MARINER. 
 
 V. 
 
 Thy reign, sweet Peace, was o'er too soon ^ 
 War, piecemeal, robs me of my joy : 
 For, on the blood- stain'd first of June 
 Death 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. 
 
 vn. 
 
 AVith Brueys the proud Nile they sought r 
 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 envious curse the conquering Foe ) 
 No more I feel that thirst of Fame y — 
 All I can feel is private woe, 
 
 i 
 
 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 
 
THE FRENCH MARINER. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Proud crested Fiend, the World's worst foe. 
 Ambition > canst thou boast one deed. 
 Whence no unsightly horrors flow. 
 Nor 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 
 
 Yet 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 MARINER. S3 
 
 XIV. 
 
 From the vindictive tongue of strife. 
 Bid Hatred and false Glory flee -, 
 That babes may meet advancing life, 
 Nor feel the woes that light on me. 
 
DOLLY. 
 
 * Ingenuous trust, and confidence of Love/ 
 
 The Bat began with giddy wing 
 His circuit round the Shed, the Tree 5 
 And clouds of dancing Gnats to sing 
 A summer- night's serenity. 
 
DOLLY. 85 
 
 IL 
 
 Darkness crept slowly o'er the East ; 
 Upon the Barn-roof watch'd the Cat j 
 Sweet breathed the ruminating Beast 
 At rest where Dolly musing sat. 
 
 HI. 
 
 A simple Maid, 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. 
 
S6 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. 
 
 VI. 
 
 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 5 
 
 The fields all wore a purple glow. 
 
DOLLY. 87 
 
 VIII. 
 
 We stroU'd the bordering fiow'rs among : 
 One hand the Bridle held behind 5 
 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 Dolli/ still be true to me !* 
 
 X. 
 
 From the rude Dock my skirt had swept 
 A fringe of clinging burs so green 5 
 Like them our hearts still closer crept. 
 And hook'd a thousand holds unseen. 
 
^ DOLLY. 
 
 XL 
 
 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. 
 
 XIL 
 
 The sweet-brier op'd its pink-ey'd rose. 
 And gave its fragrance to the gale 3 
 Though modest flow'rs may sweets disclose. 
 More sweet was Henry's earnest tale. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He seem'd, methought, on thtit dear morn, 
 
 To pour out all his heart to me 3 
 
 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 5 
 Of heav'nly blue the Violets gay 
 His hand invited one by one. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The posy with a smile he gave 5 
 I saw his meaning in his eyes : 
 The withered treasure still I have 5 
 My bosom holds the fragrant prize. 
 
 XVL 
 
 With his last kiss he would have vow'd 5 
 But blessings crowding forc'd their way : 
 Then mounted he his Courser proud 3 
 His time was gone, he could not stay. 
 
90 DOLLY. 
 
 XVIL 
 Then first I felt the parting pang 5 — 
 Sure the worst pang the Lover feels ! 
 His Horse unruly from me sprang. 
 The pebbless flew beneath his heels 5 
 
 XVHL 
 
 Then down the road his vigour tried. 
 His rider gazing, gazing still 3 
 ' My dearest, Pll 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 
 
 k VISIT TO WHITTLEBURY FOREST, 
 
 NORTHAMPTONSHIRE, 
 In August, 1800. 
 
 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 
 
 11. 
 
 Thy 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 graceftd swell 5 
 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, withholds the Show'r. 
 The deep-ton' d Low from either Hill, 
 Down hazel aisles and arches green j 
 (The Herd's rude tracks from rill to rill) 
 Hoard 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. 
 TheU;, darker shadows seeking stilly 
 Where human foot had seldom stray'd^ 
 I read aloud to every Hill 
 Sweet Emma's Love^ ' the Nut-brown Maid/ 
 
 I 
 
 V. 
 
 Shaking his matted mane on high, 
 The gazing Coir would raise his head -, 
 Or, timVous 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 me thought I heard 
 The daring progress of the storm. 
 
94 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. 95 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Now^ at the dark Wood's stately side. 
 Well pleas'd I met the Sun again 3 
 Here fleeting Fancy travell'd wide ! 
 My seat was destin'd to the Main : 
 For, many an Oak lay stretched at length, 
 ^^Hiose trunks (with bark no longer sheath'd) 
 Had reach*d their full meridian strength 
 Before your Father's Father breath'd ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Perhaps they'll many a conflict brave. 
 And many a dreadful storm defy 3 
 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 Clifi's round my native shore. 
 And the loud Ocean's swelling: tide. 
 
96 A VISIT TO 
 
 X. 
 
 ' Genius of the Forest Shades/ 
 Sweety 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 5 
 Groves that, grown bright in borrow'd fire. 
 Bow o'er the peopled Vales to thee ! 
 
 XL 
 
 Where was thy Elfin train, that play 
 
 Round JVake^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 5 
 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 still lengthen thy long glades. 
 And bring thy peace and silence here. 
 
SONG 
 
 FOR 
 
 A HIGHLAND DROVER 
 
 RETURNING FROM ENGLAND. 
 
 I. 
 
 Now fare-thee-well, England -, no further I'll 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. 
 Gives my sinews their strength and my bosom its glow. 
 
 II. 
 
 Farewell, Mountaineers ! 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 bum. 
 And o'er the rough Heaths, where you'll never return ; 
 But in brave English pastures you cannot complain. 
 While your Drover speeds back to his Maggy again. 
 
 m. 
 
 O Tweed ! gentle Tweed, as I pass your green vales. 
 More 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 mountains away 3 my heart bounds like the hind ; 
 For home is so sweet, and my Maggy 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 wildMoor. 
 
 f2 
 
100 HIGHLAND DROVER. 
 
 The keen polar Star nightly rising to view j 
 But Maggy'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 reigns warm in my breast. 
 And fortitude grows 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 3 
 
 I've pass'd silver Tweed 5 e'en the Tay flows behind : 
 Yet fatigue I'll disdain 3 — my reward I shall find 3 
 Thou sweet smile of innocence, thou art my prize 3 
 And the joy that will sparkle in Maggy's blue eyes. 
 
HIGHLAND DROVER. 101 
 
 VII. 
 
 She' 11 watch to the southward 3 — ^perhaps she will sigh. 
 That the way is so long, and the Mountains so high 3 
 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 5 Tm still far from my home; 
 Go, sleep, my dear Maggy, — to-morrow I'll come. 
 
A WORD 
 
 TWO YOUNG LADIES. 
 
 I. 
 
 When tender Rose-trees first receive. 
 On half-expanded Leaves, the Shower ; 
 Hope's gayest pictures we believe. 
 And anxious watch each coming flower. 
 
 n. 
 
 Then, if beneath the genial Sun 
 That spreads abroad the full-blown May, 
 Two infant Stems the rest out-run. 
 Their buds the first to meet the day : 
 
A WORD TO TWO YOUNG LADIES. 103 
 
 m. 
 
 With joy their op'ning tints we view^ 
 While morning's precious moments fiy : 
 My pretty Maids, 'tis thus with you^ 
 The fond admiring gazer, /. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Preserve, sweet Buds, where'er you be. 
 The richest gem that decks a Wife j 
 The charm oi female modesty: 
 And let sweet music give it life. 
 
 Still may the favouring Muse be found : 
 Still circumspect the paths ye tread : 
 Rant moral truths in Fancy's ground ^ 
 And meet old Age without a dread. 
 
104 A WORD TO TWO YOUNG LADIES. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet, ere that comes, while yet ye quaff 
 The cup of Health without a pain, 
 I'll 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 received 
 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'll bind ; 
 « None that have read thy commendable mind 
 
 * Can let it pass unnoticed — nor can I — 
 
 * For by thy lays I know thy sympathy.' F, P. 
 
ON 
 
 HEARING OF THE TRANSLATION 
 
 OF 
 
 PART OF ' THE FARMER'S BOY' 
 
 INTO LATIN; 
 By the 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 3 
 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 3 
 Then, in such Coats have shown their joy. 
 E'en their oion Fathers have not known 'em. 
 f5 
 
NANCY. 
 
 You ask me, dear Nancy, what makes me presume 
 
 That you cherish a secret affection for me ? 
 
 When we see the Flow'rs bud, don't we look for the 
 
 bloom ? 
 Then, sweetest, attend, while I answer to thee. 
 
NANCY. lor 
 
 n. 
 
 When we Young Men with pastimes the Twilight 
 
 beguile, 
 I watch your plump cheek till it dimples with joy : 
 And observe, that whatever occasions the smile. 
 You give me a glance, but provokingly coy. 
 
 III. 
 
 Last month, when wild strawberries pluckt in the 
 
 grove. 
 Like beads on the tall seeded grass you had strung. 
 You gave me the choicest 5 I hop'd 'twas for Love ; 
 And I told you my hopes while the Nightingale sung. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Remember the Viper : — *twas close at your feet. 
 How you started, and threw yourself into my arms 3 
 Not a Strawberry there was so ripe nor so sweeet 
 As the lips which I kiss*d to subdue your alarms. 
 
108 NANCY. 
 
 V. 
 
 As I puird down the clusters of Nuts for my Fair, 
 What a blow I receiv'd from a strong bending bough j 
 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 occasioned 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 bower. 
 Sent forth its waters near my head : 
 A rosy Lass approached 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 Moss the wild Thyme grew 5 
 
 Nor Moss elastic, flow'rs though sweet, 
 
 Match'd Hannah's cheek of rosy hue. 
 
 III. 
 
 I met her where the dark Woods wave^ 
 And 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 5 
 Truth made me welcome at her door. 
 And rosy Hannah is my own. 
 
SONG. 
 
 THE SHEPHERD 
 
 AND 
 
 HIS DOG ROVER. 
 
 I. 
 
 Rover 3 awake ! the gray Cock crows ! 
 Come, shake your coat and go with me ! 
 High in the East the green Hill glows 5 
 And glory crowns our shelf ring Tree. 
 
112 SONG. 
 
 The Sheep 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. 
 
 11. 
 
 Half his broad orb o'erlooks the Hill, 
 And, darting down the Valley flies. 
 At every casement welcome still, 
 The golden summons of the skies. 
 Go, fetch my staffs and o'er the dews 
 Let Echo waft thy gladsome voice : 
 Shall we a cheerful note refuse. 
 When rising Morn proclaims, ^ rejoice V 
 
 HI. 
 
 Now then we'll start 5 and thus I'll sling 
 Our store, a trivial load to bear : 
 Yet, ere night comes, should hunger sting, 
 I'll 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 sonff ; 
 ^ Go, brush before, away, away. 
 
HUNTING SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 Ye darksome Woods where Echo dwells, 
 \^' here every bud with freedom swells 
 
 To meet the glorious day : 
 The morning breaks 5 again rejoice 3 
 And with old Ringwood's well-known voice 
 
 Bid tuneful Echo play. 
 
 II. 
 
 We come, ye Groves, ye HiUs, we come : 
 The vagreint Fox shall hear his doom, 
 
 And dread our jovial train. 
 The shrill Horn sounds, the courser flies. 
 While every Sportsman joyful cries, 
 
 ' There's Ringwood's voice again '/ 
 
HUNTING SONG. 115 
 
 III. 
 Ye Meadows, hail the coming throng 5 
 Ye peaceful Streams that wind along. 
 
 Repeat 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. 
 
 Thy favourite Bird is soaring still : 
 My Lucy, haste thee o'er the dale : 
 The Stream 's let loose, and from the Mill 
 All silent comes the balmy gale j 
 Yet, so lightly on its way, 
 Seems to whisper ' Holiday.' 
 
SONG. 1 17 
 
 II. 
 
 The pathway flowers that bending meet, 
 And give the Meads their yellow hue, 
 The May-bush and the Meadow-sweet 
 Reserve their fragrance all for you. 
 
 Why then, Lucy, why delay ? 
 
 Let us share the Holiday. 
 
 III. 
 
 Since there thy smiles, my charming Maid, 
 Are with unfeigned rapture seen, 
 To Beauty be the homage paid 3 
 Come, claim the triumph of the Green. 
 
 Here's my hand, come, come away j 
 
 Share the merry Holiday. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A promise too my Lucy made, 
 
 (And shall my heart its claim resign r) 
 
118 SONG. 
 
 That ere May-flowers again should fade. 
 Her heart and hand should both be mine. 
 Hark ye, Lucy, this is May, 
 Love shall crown our Holiday. 
 
WINTER SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 Dear Boy, throw that Icicle down. 
 And sweep this deep Snow from the door : 
 Old Winter comes on with 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 3 
 Here 's Job come to teU us a tale. 
 We '11 make him at home to a pin. 
 
120 WINTER SONG. 
 
 While 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 down the chimney rebound j 
 
 1 'm happier than many a king. 
 
 While 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'll distribute the bounty of Heaven ! 
 
WINTER SONG. 121 
 
 7 he fool and the slave gather wealth : 
 But if I add nought to my store^ 
 Yet while I keep conscience in health, 
 I've a Mine that will never grow poor. 
 
Since this work went to press, an event of much greater 
 importance 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 I 
 Blood grows precious ; shed no more 3 
 Cease your toils, your wounds to heal 5 
 Lo ! beams of Mercy reach the shore ! 
 From Realms of everlasting light 
 The 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 j 
 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 1 your Country calls ; 
 Return, return, your task is done : 
 While here the tear of transport falls. 
 To grace your Laurels nobly won. 
 
124 PEACE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Albion 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 5 
 Peace, Wealth, and Commerce, all thine own : 
 Still on contented Labour rests 
 The basis of a lasting throne. 
 Shout, Poverty ! 'tis Heaven that saves j 
 Protected Wealth, the chorus raise. 
 Ruler of War, of Winds, and Waves, 
 Accept a prostrate Nation's praise. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Printed by T. Davison, 
 Whitefriars, London. 
 
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