if 
 
 /*/
 
 
 THE 
 
 FARMER'S BOY; 
 
 A RURAL POEM. 
 
 By ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 
 
 A SHEPHERD'S BOY....HE SEEKS NO BETTER NAME. 
 
 * 
 
 LONDON: 
 PRINTED FOR VERNOR AND HOOD, POULTRY; 
 
 BY T. BENSLEY, BOLT-COURT, FLEET-STREET. 
 MDCCC.
 
 THE 
 
 FARMER'S BOY; 
 
 A RURAL POEM.
 
 
 j
 
 \
 
 fultirhid. fy Krnor k Bood-fouley.
 
 A UTUMN. 
 
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 fukbrhtd by Krrtar * Hootl.Pt>uUry.
 

 
 PREFACE. 
 
 HAVING the satisfaction of introducing to the Public this very 
 pleasing and characteristic POEM, the FARMER'S BOY, I think 
 it will be agreeable to preface it with a short Account of the 
 manner in which it came into my hands : and, which will be 
 much more interesting to every Reader, a little History of the 
 Author, which has been communicated to me by his Brother, 
 and which I shall very nearly transcribe as it lies before me. 
 
 In Novemler last year I received a MS. which I was re- 
 quested to read, and to give my opinion of it. It had before 
 been shewn to some persons in London : whose indifference to- 
 ward it may probably be explained when it is considered that 
 it came to their hands under no circumstances of adventitious 
 recommendation. With some a person must be rich, or titled, 
 or fashionable as a literary name, or at least fashionable in 
 some respect, good or bad, before any thing which he can offer 
 will be thought worthy of notice. 
 
 I had been a little accustomed to the effect of prejudices : 
 and I was determined to judge, in the only just and reasonable 
 
 way, of the Work, by the Work itself. 
 
 b
 
 ii PREFACE. 
 
 At first I confess, seeing it divided into the four Seasons, I 
 had to encounter a prepossession not very advantageous to any 
 writer, that the Author was treading in a path already so ad- 
 mirably trod by THOMSON; and might be adding one more 
 to an attempt already so often, but so injudiciously and unhap- 
 pily made, of transmuting that noble Poem from Blank Verse 
 into Rhime;....from its own pure native Gold into an alloyed 
 Metal of incomparably less splendor, permanence, and worth. 
 
 I had soon, however, the pleasure of finding myself relieved 
 from that apprehension : and of discovering that, although the 
 delineation of RURAL SCENERY naturally branches itself into 
 these divisions, there was little else except the General Qualities 
 of a musical ear; flowing numbers, Feeling, Piety, poetic Imagery 
 and Animation, a taste for the picturesque, a true sense of the 
 natural and pathetic, force of thought, and liveliness of imagina- 
 tion, which were in common between Thomson and this Author. 
 And these are qualities which whoever has the eye, the heart, 
 the awakened and surrounding intellect, and the diviner sense 
 of the Poet, which alone can deserve the name, must possess. 
 
 But, with these general Characters of true Poetry," The Far- 
 mer's Boy " has, as I have said, a character of its own. It is 
 discriminated as much as the circumstances and habits, and 
 situation, and ideas consequently associated, which are so widely 
 diverse in the two Authors, could make it different. Simplicity, 
 sweetness, a natural tenderness, that molle atquefacetum which 
 HORACE celebrates in the Eclogues of VIRGIL, will be found 
 to belong to it.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 111 
 
 I intend some farther and more particular CRITICAL RE- 
 MARKS on this charming Performance. But I now pass to 
 the Account of the Author himself, as given me by his Bro- 
 ther:. ...a Man to whom also I was entirely a stranger:.... but 
 whose Candor, good Sense, and brotherly Affection, appear in 
 this Narrative; and of the justness of whose Understanding, 
 and the Goodness of his Heart, I have had many Proofs, in 
 consequence of a correspondence with him on different occa- 
 sions which have since arisen, when this had made me ac- 
 quainted with him, and interested me in his behalf. 
 
 In writing to me, Mr. GEORGE BLOOMFIELD, who is a 
 Shoemaker also, as his Brother, and lives at BURY, thus ex- 
 presses himself. 
 
 " As I spent five years with the Author, from the time he 
 was thirteen years and a half old till he was turned of eighteen, 
 the most interesting time of life (I mean the time that instruc- 
 tion is acquired, if acquired at all), I think I am able to give a 
 better account of him than any one can, or than he can of him- 
 self: for his Modesty would not let him speak of his Temper, 
 Disposition, or Morals." 
 
 " ROBERT was the younger Child of GEORGE BLOOM- 
 FIELD, ^.Taylor, atHoNiNGTON.* His Father died when he 
 was an infant under a year old. His Mother ** was a School- 
 mistress, and instructed her own Children with the others. He 
 thus learned to read as soon as he learned to speak." 
 
 * This Village is between Euston and Troston, and about nine miles N.E. of Bury. L. 
 ** ELIZABETH, Daughter of ROBERT MANBY. Vide Note at the end of this Preface.
 
 iv PREFACE. 
 
 Though the Mother was left a Widow with six small 
 Children, yet with the help of Friends she managed to give 
 each of them a little schooling." 
 
 " ROBERT was accordingly sent to Mr. RODWELL,* of 
 Ixworth, to be improved in Writing: but he did not go to that 
 School more than two or three months, nor was ever sent to 
 any other; his Mother again marrying when ROBERT was 
 about seven years old." 
 
 " By her second Husband, JOHN GLOVER, she had an- 
 other Family." 
 
 " When Robert was not above eleven years old, the late 
 Mr. W. AUSTIN, of SAPISTON, f took him. And though it 
 is customary for Farmers to pay such Boys only Is. 6d. per 
 week, yet he generously took him into the house. This re- 
 lieved his Mother of any other expence than only of finding 
 him a few things to wear : and this was more than she well 
 knew how to do." 
 
 " She wrote therefore," Mr. G. BLOOMFIELD continues, 
 ff to me and my Brother NAT (then in London), to assist her; 
 mentioning that he, ROBERT, was so small of his age that 
 Mr. AUSTIN said he was not likely to be able to get his living 
 by hard labour." 
 
 * This respectable Man is senior Clerk to the Magistrates of the Hundred of 
 BLACKBOURN, in which Honington is situated, and has conducted himself with 
 great propriety in this and other public employments. L. 
 
 f This little Village adjoins to HONINGTON. L.
 
 PREFACE. v 
 
 Mr. G. BLOOMFIELD on this informed his Mother that, if 
 she would let him take the Boy with him, he would take him, 
 and teach him to make shoes: and NAT promised to clothe 
 him. The Mother, upon this offer, took coach and came to 
 LONDON, to Mr. G. BLOOMFIELD, with the Boy: for she 
 said, she never should have been happy if she had not put him 
 herself into his hands. 
 
 " She charged me," he adds, " as I valued a Mother's 
 Blessing, to watch over him, to set good Examples for him, 
 and never to forget that he had lost his Father." I religiously 
 confine myself to Mr. G. BLOOM FIELD'S own words; and think 
 I should wrong all the parties concerned if in mentioning this 
 pathetic and successful Admonition, I were to use any other. 
 
 Mr. G. BLOOMFIELD then lived at Mr. Simm's, No. 7, 
 Fisher' s-court, Bell-alley, Coleman- street. (t It is customary," 
 he continues, " in such houses as are let to poor people in 
 London, to have light Garrets fit for Mechanics to work in. 
 In the Garret, where we had two turn-up Beds, and five of us 
 worked, I received little ROBERT." 
 
 " As we were all single Men, Lodgers at a Shilling per week 
 each, our beds were coarse, and all things far from being clean 
 and snug, like what Robert had left at SAPISTON. Robert 
 was our man, to fetch all things to hand. At Noon he fetched 
 our Dinners from the Cook's Shop : and any one of our fellow 
 workmen that wanted to have any thing fetched in, would send 
 him, and assist in his work and teach him, for a recompense 
 for his trouble."
 
 vi PREFACE. 
 
 (e Every day when the Boy from the Public-house came for 
 the pewter pots, and to hear what Porter was wanted, he always 
 brought the yesterday's Newspaper.* The reading of the Paper 
 we had been used to take by turns; but after Robert came, he 
 mostly read for us,.... because his time was of least value." 
 
 " He frequently met with words that he was unacquainted 
 with: of this he often complained. I one day happened at a 
 Book-stall to see a small Dictionary, which had been very ill 
 used. I bought it for him for 4d. By the help of this he in 
 little time could read and comprehend the long and beautiful 
 speeches of BURKE, Fox, or NORTH. 
 
 " One Sunday, after an whole day's stroll in the country, 
 we by accident went into a dissenting Meeting-house in the 
 Old Jewry, where a Gentleman was lecturing. This Man filled 
 little Rolert with astonishment. The House was amazingly 
 crowded with the most genteel people; and though we were 
 forced to stand still in the Aisle, and were much pressed, yet 
 Rolert always quickened his steps to get into the Town on a 
 Sunday evening soon enough to attend this Lecture. 
 
 <f The Preacher lived somewhere at the West End of the 
 Town.. ..his name was FAWCET. His language," says Mr. G. 
 BLOOMFIELD, " was just such as the Rambler is written in; 
 his Action like a person acting a Tragedy; his Discourse ra- 
 tional, and free from the Cant of Methodism. 
 
 * There was then, neither as a resource for the exigencies of finance, nor as a 
 Principle of supposed Policy, that unhappy Check which prevails now on the cir- 
 culation of Newspapers, and other means of popular Information. L.
 
 PREFACE. vii 
 
 " Of him Robert learned to accent what he called hard 
 words; and otherwise improved himself; and gained the most 
 enlarged notions of PROVIDENCE. 
 
 " He went sometimes with me to a Delating Society * at 
 Coachmaker's-hall, but not often; and a few times to Covenl- 
 garden Theatre. These are all the opportunities he ever had to 
 learn from Public Speakers. As to Books, he had to wade through 
 two or three Folios : an History of England, British Traveller, and 
 a Geography. But he always read them as a task, or to oblige us 
 who bought them . And as they came in sixpenny numbers weekly, 
 he had about as many hours to read as other boys spend in play." 
 
 " I at that time," proceeds his Brother, " read the London 
 Magazine ; and in that work about two sheets were set apart 
 for a Review.... Robert seemed always eager to read this Review. 
 Here he could see what the Literary Men were doing, and learn 
 how to judge of the merits of the Works that came out. And 
 I observed that he always looked at the Poet's Corner. And one 
 day he repeated a Song which he composed to an old tune. I 
 was much surprised that a boy of sixteen should make so 
 smooth verses : so I persuaded him to try whether the Editor 
 of our Paper would give them a place in Poet's Corner. And 
 he succeeded, and they were printed. And as I forget his other 
 early productions, I shall copy this." 
 
 * It is another of the Constitutional Refinements of these times to have fettered, 
 and as to every valuable purpose, silenced, these Debating Societies. They were 
 at least, to say the lowest of them, far better amusements than drunkenness, gam- 
 bling, or fighting. They were no useless Schools to some of our very celebrated 
 Speakers at the Bar and in Parliament: and, what is of infinitely more importance, 
 they contributed to the diffusion of Political Knowledge and Public Sentiment. L.
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 THE M I L K - M A I D, 
 
 ON THE FIRST OF MAY. 
 
 I. 
 Hail, MAY ! lovely MAY ! how replenish' d my pails! 
 
 The young Dawn overspreads the East streak' d with gold! 
 My glad heart beats time to the laugh of the Vale, 
 
 And COLIN',? voice rings through the woods from the fold. 
 
 ii. 
 The Wood to the Mountain submissively lends. 
 
 Whose Hue misty summits first glow with the sun! 
 See thence a gay train by the wild rill descends 
 
 To join the glad sports:. ...hark! the tumult's begun. 
 
 in. 
 Be cloudless, ye skies!. ...Be my Colin but there, 
 
 Not the dew-spangled bents on the wide level Dale, 
 Nor Morning' s first blush can more lovely appear 
 
 Than his Looks, since my wishes I could not conceal. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Swift down the mad dance, while blest health prompts to move, 
 
 We'll count joys to come, and exchange Vows of truth; 
 And haply when Age cools the transports of Love, 
 
 Decry like good folks the vain pleasures of youth. 
 
 v. 
 No, no\ the remembrance shall ever be dear! 
 
 At no time LOVE with INNOCENCE ceases to charm: 
 It is transport in Youth. ...and it smiles through the tear, 
 
 When they feel, in their children, it's first soft alarm.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 IX 
 
 The Writer of this Preface doubts whether he has been suc- 
 cessful in adding the last Stanza to this beautiful and simply 
 expressive Song. But he imagined that some thought of this 
 kind was in the mind of the Author : and he was willinp- to 
 
 . O 
 
 endeavour to express it. The Breast which has felt Love, justly 
 shrinks from the idea of its total extinction, as from annihi- 
 lation itself. And there is even an high social and moral use 
 in that order of Providence which exalts Sensations into tender 
 and benign Passions; those Passions into habitual Affections 
 yet more tender; and raises from those Affections Virtues the 
 most permanent, the most necessary and beneficent, and the 
 most endearing: thus expanding the sentiment into all the Cha- 
 rities of domestic and social Life. 
 
 " I remember," says Mr. G. BLOOM FIELD, continuing 
 his Narrative, " a little piece which he called the Sailor's 
 Return: * in which he tried to describe the feelings of an honest 
 Tar, who, after a long absence, saw his dear native Village first 
 rising into view. This too obtain'd a place in the Poet's Corner." 
 
 f< And as he was so young," his Brother proceeds, " it shews 
 some Genius in him, and some Industry, to have acquired so 
 much knowledge of the use of words in so little time. Indeed 
 at this time myself and my fellow workmen in the Garret began 
 to get instructions from him, though not more than sixteen 
 years old." f 
 
 " About this time there came a Man to lodge at our Lodg- 
 ings that was troubled with fits. ROBERT was so much hurt 
 
 * It is much to be wished that this may be discovered. L. 
 f What simple magnanimity and benevolence in this Remark. L.
 
 x PREFACE. 
 
 to see this poor creature drawn into such frightful forms, and 
 to hear his horrid screams, that I was forced to leave the Lodg- 
 ing. We went to Blue Hart-court, Bell-alley. In our new 
 Garret we found a singular character, James Kay, a native of 
 Dundee. He was a middle-aged man, of a good understanding, 
 and yet a furious Calvinist. He had many Books,.... and some 
 which he did not value: such as the SEASONS, PARADISE 
 LOST, and some Novels. These Books he lent to ROBERT; 
 who spent all his leisure hours in reading the Seasons, which 
 he was now capable of reading. I never heard him give so 
 much praise to any Book as to that." 
 
 " I think it was in the year 1784 that the Question came 
 to be decided between the journeymen Shoemakers; whether 
 those who had learn'd without serving an Apprenticeship could 
 follow the Trade." * 
 
 " The Man by whom Robert and I were employ'd, Mr. 
 CHAMBERLAYNE, of Cheapside, took an active part against 
 the lawful journeymen; and even went so far as to pay off every 
 man that worked for him that had joined their Clubs. This so 
 exasperated the men, that their acting Committee soon looked 
 for unlawful men (as they called them) among Chamlcrlayne's 
 workmen." 
 
 * That is as journeymen: for there was no Question that they could not as Masters 
 on their own account. That a person may work as ^.journeyman without having served 
 an apprenticeship, had already been determined, T. 9. G. 3. Beach v. Turner. Burr. 
 Mansf. 2449. A person also who has not served an Apprenticeship may be a. partner, 
 contributing money, or advice and attention to the accounts and general concerns 
 of the Trade, provided that he does not actually exercise the Trade, and that the 
 acting partner has served. Vide Reynolds v. Chast i -'M. 30. G. 2. Burr. Mansf. 2. 
 i Burn J. P. Apprent. . 12. L.
 
 PREFACE. xi 
 
 They found out little Robert, and threatened to prosecute 
 Chamlerlayne for employing him, and to prosecute his Brother, 
 Mr. G. Bloomfield, for teaching him. Chamberlayne- requested 
 of the Brother to go on and bring it to a Trial ; for that he 
 would defend it; and that neither George nor Robert should be 
 hurt. 
 
 In the mean time George was much insulted for having re- 
 fused to join upon this occasion those who called themselves, 
 exclusively, the Lawful Crafts. George, who says he was 
 never famed for patience, (it is not indeed so much as might be 
 sometimes wished, very often the lot of strong and acute minds 
 to possess largely of this virtue,) took his pen, and addressed a 
 Letter to one of the most active of their Committee-men (a man 
 of very bad character). In this, after stating that he took Rolert 
 at his Mother's request, he made free as well with the private 
 character of this man as with the views of the Committee. 
 " This," says George, " was very foolish; for it made things 
 worse: but I felt too much to refrain." 
 
 What connects this episodical circumstance with the cha- 
 racter of our Author follows in his Brother's words. 
 
 " Rolert naturally fond of Peace, and fearful for my per- 
 sonal safety, begged to be suffered to retire from the storm. 
 
 " He came home; and Mr. AUSTIN kindly bade him take 
 his house for his home till he could return to me. And here, 
 with his mind glowing with the fine Descriptions of rural 
 scenery which he found in THOMSON'S SEASONS, he again 
 retraced the very fields where first he began to think. Here,
 
 xii PREFACE. 
 
 free from the smoke,* the noise, the contention of the City, he 
 imbibed that Love of rural Simplicity and rural Innocence, which 
 fitted him, in a great degree, to be the writer of such a thing as 
 the Farmer's Boy." 
 
 " Here he lived two Months:. ...at length, as the dispute in 
 the trade still remained undecided, Mr. DUDBRIDGE offered to 
 take Robert Apprentice, to secure him, at all events, from any 
 consequences of the Litigation." 
 
 He was bound by Mr. Ingram, of Bell-alley, to Mr. John 
 Dudbridge. His Brother George paid five shillings for Robert, 
 by way of form, as a premium. Dudbridge was their Land- 
 lord, and a Freeman of the City of London. He acted most 
 honourably, and took no advantage of the power which the In- 
 dentures gave him. George Bloomfield staid with Robert till 
 he found he could work as expertly as his self. 
 
 Mr. GEOIIGE BLOOMFIELD adds, " When I left Lojidon 
 he was turned of eighteen; and much of my happiness since 
 has arisen from a constant correspondence which I have held 
 with him." 
 
 " After I left him, he studied Music, and was a good player 
 on the Violin" 
 
 " But as my Brother Nat had married a Woolwich woman, 
 it happened that Robert took a fancy to a comely young-woman f 
 
 * But one word is altered in this Description; which reminds one of the 
 Ornif'f :irarl beat<s 
 Fumunt et opes Strepitumque Romae. L. 
 
 f MARY. Her surname before marriage is mentioned in the next Page.
 
 PREFACE. xiii 
 
 of that Town, whose Father is a boat-builder in the Government 
 
 yard there. His name is CHURCH." 
 
 " Soon after he married, Robert told me, in a Letter, that 
 
 e .he had sold his Fiddle and got a Wife.' Like most poor 
 
 men, he got a wife first, and had to get household stuff after- 
 ward. It took him some years to get out of ready furnished 
 Lodgings. At length, by hard working, &c. he acquired a Bed 
 of his own, and hired the room up one pair of stairs at 14, 
 Bell-alley, Coleman- street. The Landlord kindly gave him 
 leave to sit and work in the light Garret) two pair of stairs 
 higher." 
 
 " In this Garret, amid six or seven other workmen, his 
 active Mind employed itself in composing the Farmer's 
 Boy" 
 
 " In my correspondence I have seen several poetical effu- 
 sions of his 5 all of them of a good moral tendency j but which 
 he very likely would think do him little credit: on that account 
 I have not preserved them." 
 
 " ROBERT is a Ladies Shoemaker, and works forDAviES, 
 Lomlard-street. He is of a slender make; of about 5 F. 4 /. 
 high; very dark complexion.... His MOTHER, who is a very 
 religious member of the Church of England, took all the 
 pains she could in his infancy to make him pious : and as his 
 Reason expanded, his love of God and Man increased with 
 it. I never knew his fellow for mildness of temper and Good- 
 ness of Disposition. And since I left him, universally is he 
 praised by those who know him best, for the best of Husbands,,
 
 xlv PREFACE. 
 
 an indulgent Father, and quiet Neighbour. He is about thirty- 
 two years old, and has three Children." 
 
 Mr. GEORGE BLOOMFIELD concludes this clear, affec- 
 tionate, and interesting Narrative, by a very kind Address to 
 the Writer of this Preface. But, pleased as I am with the good 
 opinion of a Man like him, I must not take praise to myself for 
 not having neglected or suppressed such a Work when it came 
 into my hands. And I have no farther merit than that of seeing 
 what it was impossible for an unprejudiced Mind not to see, 
 and of doing what it was impossible not to do. 
 
 But I join with him cordially in his prayer, " that GOD, 
 the Giver of thought, may, as mental light spreads, raise up 
 many who will turn a listening ear, and will not despise 
 
 " The short and simple finals of the Poor." 
 
 Very few words will complete what remains to be added. 
 
 Struck with the Work, but not less struck with the Remark, 
 which is become a Proverb, of the Roman Satirist, that " it is 
 not easy * for those to emerge to notice whose circumstances 
 obscure the observation of their Merits," I sent it to a Friend, 
 whom I knew to be above these prejudices, and who has de- 
 served, and is deserving, well of the Public, in many other in- 
 stances, by his attention to Literature and the elegant Arts. 
 He immediately expressed an high satisfaction in it, and com- 
 municated it to Messrs. VERNOR and HOOD. They adopted 
 
 * Haud facile emergunt quorum vlrtutibui otsfat Res anguita domi.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 xv 
 
 it upon terms honorable to themselves, and satisfactory to the 
 Author, and to me in his behalf. They have published it in a 
 manner which speaks abundantly for itself; both as to the typo- 
 graphical accuracy and beauty, and the good taste and execution 
 of the Ornaments in Wood. 
 
 My part has been this, and it has been a very pleasing one: 
 to revise the MS. making occasionally corrections with respect 
 to Orthography, and sometimes in the grammatical construc- 
 tion. The corrections, in point of Grammar, reduce themselves 
 almost wholly to a circumstance of provincial usage, which even 
 well educated persons in Suffolk and Norfolk do not wholly 
 avoid; and which may be said, as to general custom, to have 
 become in these Counties almost an established Dialect:.... that 
 of adopting the plural for the singular termination of verbs, so 
 as to exclude the s. But not a line is added or substantially 
 alter'd through the whole Poem. I have requested the MS. to 
 be preserv'd for the satisfaction of those who may wish to be 
 satisfied on this head. 
 
 The Proofs have gone through my hands. It has been 
 printed slowly: because most carefully; as it deserv'd to be 
 printed. 
 
 I have no doubt of its Reception with the Public: I have 
 none of its going down to Posterity with honor; which is not 
 always the Fate of productions which are popular in their 
 day. 
 
 Thus much I know :.... that the Author, with a spirit amiable 
 at all times, and which would have been revered by Antiquity,
 
 xvi PREFACE. 
 
 seems far less interested concerning any Fame or Advantage he 
 may derive from it to himself, than in the pleasure of giving a 
 printed Copy of it, as a tribute of duty and affection, to his 
 MOTHER; in whose pleasure, if it succeeds, his filial heart 
 places the gratification of which it is most desirous. It is 
 much to be a POET, such as he will be found:.... it is more to 
 be such a MAN. 
 
 CAPEL LOFFT. 
 
 TROSTON, n. BURY, SUFFOLK. 
 21 Dec. 1799. 
 
 ** ELIZABETH MANBY, the Mother of the Author of this POEM, was sister to 
 the wife of Mr. WILLIAM AUSTIN. I had written to Mr. GEORGE BI.OOMFIELD to 
 request the name, before Marriage, of his Mother. This gained me an Answer, 
 which I have great pleasure in adding. 
 
 " The late Mr. AUSTIN'S wife was a Manby (my Mother's sister). And it may 
 seem strange that, in the FARMER'S BOY, Giles nowhere calls him Uncle, but Master. 
 .... The treatment that my Brother Robert experienced from Mr. Austin did not differ 
 in any respect from the treatment that all the Servant Boys experienced who lived 
 with him. Mr. Austin was Father of fourteen Children by my Aunt (he never had 
 any other wife). He left a decent provision for the five Children that survived him: 
 so that it could not be expected he should have any thing to give to poor Relations. 
 And I don't see a possibility of making a difference between GILES and the Boys 
 that were not related to Mr. Austin: for he treated all his Servants exactly as he did 
 his Sons. They all worked hard; all lived well. The DUKE had not a better Man 
 Tenant to him than the late Mr. Austin. I saw numbers of the Husbandmen in 
 tears when he was buried. He was beloved by all who knew him. But I imagine 
 Robert thought that when he was speaking of Benevolence that was universal, he 
 had no occasion to mention the accidental circumstance of his being related to the 
 Good Man of whom he sung.''
 
 SPRING.
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Invocation, 8$c. Seed time. Harrowing. Morning walks. 
 Milking. The Dairy. Suffolk Cheese. Spring coming 
 forth. Sheep fond of changing. Lambs at play. The 
 Butcher, 8$c.
 
 SPRING. 
 
 i. 
 
 O COME, blest Spirit! whatsoe'er thou art, 
 
 Thou rushing warmth that hovers round my heart, 
 
 Sweet inmate, hail ! thou source of sterling joy, 
 
 That poverty itself cannot destroy, 
 
 Be thou my Muse ; and faithful still to me, 
 
 Retrace the paths of wild obscurity. 
 
 No deeds of arms my humble lines rehearse, 
 
 No Alpine wonders thunder through my verse,
 
 4 SPRING. 
 
 Invocation. ...Simple character of Giles. v. 9. 
 
 The roaring cataract, the snow-topt hill, 
 Inspiring awe, till breath itself stands still : 
 Nature's sublimer scenes ne'er charm'd mine eyes, 
 Nor Science led me through the boundless skies ; 
 From meaner objects far my raptures flow: 
 O point these raptures ! bid my bosom glow ! 
 And lead my soul to ecstacies of praise 
 For all the blessings of my infant days ! 
 Bear me through regions where gay Fancy dwells ; 
 But mould to Truth's fair form what Memory tells. 
 
 Live, trifling incidents, and grace my song, 
 That to the humblest menial belong; 
 To him whose drudgery unheeded goes, 
 His joys unreckon'd as his cares or woes : 
 Though joys and cares in every path are sown, 
 And youthful minds have feelings of their own ; 
 Quick springing sorrows, transient as the dew; 
 Delights from trifles, trifles ever new.
 
 SPRING. 
 
 v. 27. Euston in Suffolk, and its neighbourhood, the Scene. 
 
 Twas thus with GILES: meek, fatherless, and poor; 
 Labour his portion, but he felt no more ; 
 No stripes, no tyranny his steps pursu'd ; 
 His life was constant, cheerful, servitude: 
 Strange to the world, he wore a bashful look, 
 The Fields his study, Nature was his book ; 
 And, as revolving SEASOXS chang'd the scene 
 From heat to cold, tempestuous to serene, 
 Though every change still varied his employ, 
 Yet each new duty brought its share of joy. 
 
 Where noble GRAFTON spreads his rich domains, 
 Round Euston 's water'd vale, and sloping plains, 
 Where woods and groves in solemn grandeur rise, 
 Where the kite brooding, unmolested flies; 
 The woodcock and the painted pheasant race, 
 And sculking foxes, destin'd for the chace ; 
 There Giles, untaught and unrepining, stray 'd 
 Through every copse, and grove, and winding glade ;
 
 6 SPRING. 
 
 Benevolent character of Giles's Master... .Spring begins. v. 45. 
 
 There his first thoughts to Nature's charms inclin'd, 
 
 That stamps devotion on th' inquiring mind. 
 
 A little farm his generous Master till'd, 
 
 Who with peculiar grace his station fill'd; 
 
 By deeds of hospitality endear'd, 
 
 Serv'd from affection, for his worth rever'd : 
 
 A happy offspring blest his plenteous board, 
 
 His fields were fruitful, and his barns well stor'd, 
 
 And fourscore ewes he fed, a sturdy team, 
 
 And lowing kine that grazed beside the stream : 
 
 Unceasing industry he kept in view; 
 
 And never lack'd a job for Giles to do. 
 
 FLED now the sullen murmurs of the North, 
 The splendid raiment of the SPRING peeps forth; 
 Her universal green, and the clear sky, 
 Delight still more and more the gazing eye. 
 Wide o'er the fields, in rising moisture strong, 
 Shoots up the simple flower, or creeps along
 
 SPRING. 
 
 v. 63. Giles goes out to plow. 
 
 The mellow'd soil; imbibing as it goes 
 
 Fresh sweets from frequent showers and evening dews ; 
 
 That summon from its shed the slumb'ring ploughs, 
 
 While health impregnates every breeze that blows. 
 
 No wheels support the diving pointed share; 
 
 No groaning ox is doom'd to labour there ; 
 
 No helpmates teach the docile steed his road; 
 
 (Alike unknown the plow-boy and the goad;) 
 
 But, unassisted through each toilsome day, 
 
 With smiling brow the plowman cleaves his way, 
 
 Draws his fresh parallels, and wid'ning still, 
 
 Treads slow the heavy dale, or climbs the hill : 
 
 Strong on the wing .his busy followers play, 
 
 Where writhing earth-worms meet th' unwelcome day ; 
 
 Till all is chang'd, and hill and level down 
 
 Assume a livery of sober brown : 
 
 Again disturb'd, when Giles with wearying strides 
 
 From ridge to ridge the ponderous harrow guides ;
 
 8 SPRING. 
 
 Harrow ing.... Giles and his Horses rest. v. 81. 
 
 His heels deep sinking every step he goes, 
 Till dirt usurp the empire of his shoes. 
 Welcome green headland ! firm beneath his feet ; 
 Welcome the friendly bank's refreshing seat ! 
 
 v O 
 
 There, warm with toil, his panting horses browse, 
 
 Their shelt'ring canopy of pendent boughs, 
 
 Till rest, delicious, chase each transient pain, 
 
 And new-born vigour swell in every vein. 
 
 Hour after hour, and day to day succeeds, 
 
 Till every clod and deep-drawn furrow spreads 
 
 To crumbling mould ; a level surface clear, 
 
 And strew'd with corn to crown the rising year; 
 
 And o'er the whole Giles once transverse again, 
 
 In earth's moist bosom buries up the grain. 
 
 The work is done ; no more to man is given ; 
 
 The grateful farmer trusts the rest to Heaven. 
 
 Yet oft with anxious heart he looks around, 
 
 And marks the first green blade that breaks the ground ;
 
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 SPRING. 11 
 
 v. 135. Various Birds.... Their song and appearance. 
 
 (Whence inspiration, pure as ever flow'd, 
 And genuine transport in his bosom glow'd) 
 His own shrill matin join'd the various notes 
 Of Nature's music, from a thousand throats : 
 The blackbird strove with emulation sweet, 
 And Echo answer'd fr'om her close retreat ; 
 The sporting white-throat on some twig's end borne, 
 Pour'd hymns to freedom and the rising morn ; 
 Stopt in her song perchance the starting thrush 
 Shook a white shower from the black-thorn bush, 
 . Where dew-drops thick as early blossoms hung, 
 And trembled as the minstrel sweetly sung. 
 Across his path, in either grove to hide, 
 The timid rabbit scouted by his side ; 
 Or bold cock-pheasant stalk'd along the road, 
 Whose gold and purple tints alternate glow'd. 
 But groves no farther fenc'd the devious way ; 
 A wide-extended heath before him lay,
 
 12 SPRING. 
 
 Bringing in of Cows to le milked. v. 153. 
 
 Where on the grass the stagnant shower had run, 
 And shone a mirror to the rising sun, 
 (Thus doubly seen) lighting a distant wood, 
 Giving new life to each expanding bud ; 
 Effacing quick the dewy foot-marks found, 
 Where prowling Reynard trod his nightly round ; 
 To shun whose thefts 'twas Giles's evening care, 
 His feathered victims to suspend in air, 
 High on the bough that nodded o'er his head, 
 And thus each morn to strew the field with dead. 
 
 His simple errand done, he homeward hies ; 
 Another instantly its place supplies. 
 The clatt'ring dairy-maid inimers'd in steam, 
 Singing and scrubbing midst her milk and cream, 
 Bawls out, " Go fetch the cms:..." he hears no more; 
 For pigs, and ducks, and turkies, throng the door, 
 And sitting hens, for constant war prepar'd ; 
 A concert strange to that which late he heard.
 
 SPRING. 13 
 
 v. 171. Order of the Cows returning. 
 
 Straight to the meadow then he whistling goes; 
 With well-known halloo calls his lazy cows : 
 Down the rich pasture heedlessly they graze, 
 Or hear the summon with an idle gaze ; 
 For well they know the cow-yard yields no more 
 Its tempting fragrance, nor its wint'ry store. 
 Reluctance marks their steps, sedate and slow; 
 The right of conquest all the law they know : 
 Subordinate they one by one succeed; 
 And one among them always takes the lead, 
 Is ever foremost, wheresoever they stray ; 
 Allow'd precedence, undisputed sway; 
 With jealous pride her station is maintain'd, 
 For many a broil that post of honour gain'd. 
 At home, the yard affords a grateful scene , 
 For Spring makes e'en a miry cow-yard clean. 
 Thence from its chalky bed behold convey'd 
 The rich manure that drenching winter made,
 
 14 SPRING. 
 
 Milking. v. 18Q. 
 
 Which pil'd near home, grows green with many a weed, 
 
 A promis'd nutriment for Autumn's seed. 
 
 Forth comes the Maid, and like the morning smiles ; 
 
 The Mistress too, and follow'd close by Giles. 
 
 A friendly tripod forms their humble seat, 
 
 With pails bright scourd, and delicately sweet. 
 
 Where shadowing elms obstruct the morning ray, 
 
 Begins their work, begins the simple lay; 
 
 The full-charg'd udder yields its willing streams, 
 
 While Mary sings some lover's amorous dreams ; 
 
 And crouching Giles beneath a neighbouring tree 
 
 Tugs o'er his pail, and chants with equal glee ; 
 
 Whose hat with tatter'd brim, of knap so bare, 
 
 From the cow's side purloins a coat of hair, 
 
 A mottled ensign of his harmless trade, 
 
 An unambitious, peaceable cockade. 
 
 As unambitious too that cheerful aid 
 
 The mistress yields beside her rosy maid ;
 
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 SPRING. 17 
 
 v. 243. Suffolk Cheese. 
 
 Thou, like a whirlpool, drain'st the countries round, 
 Till London market, London price, resound 
 Through every town, round every passing load, 
 And dairy produce throngs the eastern road : 
 Delicious veal, and butter, every hour, 
 From Essex lowlands, and the banks of Stour; 
 And further far, where numerous herds repose, 
 From Orwell's brink, from Weveny, or Ouse. 
 Hence Suffolk dairy- wives run mad for cream, 
 And leave their milk with nothing but its name ; 
 Its name derision and reproach pursue, 
 And strangers tell of " three times skim'd sky-blue." 
 To cheese converted, what can be its boast? 
 What, but the common virtues of a post ! 
 If drought o'ertake it faster than the knife, 
 Most fair it bids for stubborn length of life, 
 And, like the oaken shelf whereon 'tis laid, 
 
 Mocks the weak efforts of the bending blade ; 
 
 D
 
 18 SPRING. 
 
 The procession of Spring. v. 261 
 
 Or in the hog-trough rests in perfect spite, 
 Too big to swallow, and too hard to bite. 
 Inglorious victory! Ye Cheshire meads, 
 Or Severn's flow'ry dales, where plenty treads, 
 Was your rich milk to suffer wrongs like these, 
 Farewell your pride ! farewell renowned cheese ! 
 The skimmer dread, whose ravages alone 
 Thus turn the mead's sweet nectar into stone. 
 
 NEGLECTED now the early daisy lies; 
 Nor thou, pale primrose, bloom'st the only prize : 
 Advancing SPRING profusely spreads abroad 
 Flow'rs of all hues, with sweetest fragrance stor'd ; 
 Where'er she treads, LOVE gladdens every plain, 
 Delight on tiptoe bears her lucid train ; 
 Sweet Hope with conscious brow before her flies, 
 Anticipating wealth from Summer skies; 
 All Nature feels her renovating sway; 
 The sheep-fed pasture, and the meadow gay ;
 
 SPRING. 
 
 v. 279. Sheep. ...Range of pasture. 
 
 And trees, and shrubs, no longer budding seen, 
 Display the new-grown branch of lighter green; 
 On airy downs the shepherd idling lies, 
 And sees to-morrow in the marbled skies. 
 Here then, my soul, thy darling theme pursue, 
 For every day was Giles a SHEPHERD too. 
 
 Small was his charge ; no wilds had they to roam, 
 But bright enclosures circling round their home. 
 Nor yellow-blossom 'cl furze, nor stubborn thorn, 
 The heath's rough produce, had their fleeces torn ; 
 Yet ever roving, ever seeking thee, 
 Enchanting spirit, dear Variety ! 
 O happy tenants, prisoners of a day ! 
 Releas'd to ease, to pleasure, and to play; 
 Indulged through every field by turns to range, 
 And taste them all in one continual change. 
 For though luxuriant their grassy food, 
 Sheep long confin'd but loathe the present good ;
 
 20 SPRING. 
 
 Lambs at play. v. 297. 
 
 Instinctively they haunt the homeward gate, 
 
 And starve, and pine, with plenty at their feet. 
 
 Loos'd from the winding lane, a joyful throng, 
 
 See, o'er yon pasture how they pour along ! 
 
 Giles round their boundaries takes his usual stroll; 
 
 Sees every pass secured, and fences whole ; 
 
 High fences, proud to charm the gazing eye, 
 
 Where many a nestling first assays to fly; 
 
 Where blows the woodbine, faintly streak'd with red, 
 
 And rests on every bough its tender head ; 
 
 * o 
 
 Round the young ash its twining branches meet, 
 Or crown the hawthorn with its odours sweet. 
 Say, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen 
 Spring's morning smiles, and soul-enliv'ning green, 
 Say, did you give the thrilling transport way? 
 Did your eye brighten, when young lambs at play 
 Leap'd o'er your path Avith animated pride, 
 Or gaz'd in merry clusters by your side ?
 
 SPRING. 21 
 
 v. 315. Lambs at play. 
 
 Ye who can smile, to wisdom no disgrace, 
 At the arch meaning of a kitten's face ; 
 If spotless innocence, and infant mirth, 
 Excites to praise, or gives reflection birth ; 
 In shades like these pursue your fav'rite joy, 
 Midst Nature's revels, sports that never cloy. 
 A few begin a short but vigorous race, 
 And indolence abash'd soon flies the place; 
 Thus challeng'd forth, see thither one by one, 
 From every side assembling playmates run ; 
 A thousand wily antics mark their stay, 
 A starting crowd, impatient of delay. 
 Like the fond dove from fearful prison freed, 
 Each seems to say, " Come, let us try our speed;" 
 Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong, 
 The green turf trembling as they bound along ; 
 Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb, 
 Where every molehill is a bed of thyme ;
 
 22 SPRING. 
 
 Contrast of their near approaching fate. v. 333. 
 
 There panting stop ; yet scarcely can refrain ; 
 
 A bird, a leaf, will set them off again : 
 
 Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow, 
 
 Scatt'ring the wild-brier roses into snow, 
 
 Their little limbs increasing efforts try, 
 
 Like the torn flower the fair assemblage fly. 
 
 Ah, fallen rose ! sad emblem of their doom ; 
 
 Frail as thyself, they perish while they bloom ! 
 
 Though unoffending innocence may plead, 
 
 Though frantic ewes may mourn the savage deed, 
 
 Their shepherd comes, a messenger of blood, 
 
 And drives them bleating from their sports and food. 
 
 Care loads his brow, and pity wrings his heart, 
 
 For lo, the murd'ring BUTCHER with his cart 
 
 Demands the firstlings of his flock to die, 
 
 And makes a sport of life and liberty ! 
 
 His gay companions Giles beholds no more ; 
 
 Clos'd are their eyes, their fleeces drench'd in gore ;
 
 V. 351. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Conclusion of the first Book. 
 
 Nor can Compassion, with her softest notes, 
 Withhold the knife that plunges through their throats. 
 Down, indignation ! hence, ideas foul ! 
 Away the shocking image from my soul ! 
 Let kindlier visitants attend my way, 
 Beneath approaching Summer's fervid ray; 
 Nor thankless glooms obtrude, nor cares annoy, 
 Whilst the sweet theme is universal joy.
 
 SUMMER.
 
 'ARGUMENT. 
 
 Turnip sowing. Wheat ripening. Sparrows. Insects. The 
 sky-lark. Reaping, fyc. Harvest-field, Dairy-maid, <T. 
 Labours of the barn. The gander. Night ; a thunder 
 storm. Harcest-home. Reflections, fyc.
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 ii. 
 
 THE FARMER'S life displays in every part 
 
 A moral lesson to the sensual heart. 
 
 Though in the lap of Plenty, thoughtful still, 
 
 He looks beyond the present good or ill ; 
 
 Nor estimates alone one blessing's worth, 
 
 From changeful seasons, or capricious earth; 
 
 But views the future with the present hours, 
 
 And looks for failures as he looks for show'ers ; 
 
 For casual as for certain want prepares, 
 
 And round his yard the reeking haystack rears ;
 
 28 SUMMER. 
 
 Provident turn of the Farmer's mind. v. 1 1 , 
 
 Or clover, blossom'd lovely to the sight, 
 
 His team's rich store through many a wint'ry night. 
 
 What though abundance round his dwelling spreads, 
 
 Though ever moist his self-improving meads 
 
 Supply his dairy with a copious flood, 
 
 And seem to promise unexhausted food, 
 
 That promise fails, when buried deep in snow, 
 
 And vegetative juices cease to flow. 
 
 For this, his plough turns up the destin'd lands, 
 
 Whence stormy Winter draws its full demands ; 
 
 For this, the seed minutely small he sows, 
 
 Whence, sound and sweet, the hardy turnip grows. 
 
 But how unlike to APRIL'S closing days! 
 
 High climbs the Sun, and darts his powerful rays ; 
 
 Whitens the fresh-drawn mould, and pierces through 
 
 The cumb'rous clods that tumble round the plough. 
 
 O'er heaven's bright azure hence with joyful eyes 
 
 The Farmer sees dark clouds assembling rise ;
 
 SUMMER. 29 
 
 v. 29. Showers softening the soil. 
 
 Borne o'er his fields a heavy torrent falls, 
 
 And strikes the earth in hasty driving squalls. 
 
 " Right welcome down, ye precious drops," he cries; 
 
 But soon, too soon, the partial blessing flies. 
 
 * ' Boy, bring thy harrows, try how deep the rain 
 Has fore d its way. " He comes, but comes in vain ; 
 Dry dust beneath the bubbling surface lurks, 
 And mocks his pains the more, the more he works : 
 Still midst huge clods he plunges on forlorn, 
 That laugh his harrows and the shower to scorn. 
 E'en thus the living clod, the stubborn fool, 
 Resists the stormy lectures of the school, 
 Till tried with gentler means, the dunce to please, 
 His head imbibes right reason by degrees ; 
 As when from eve till morning's wakeful hour, 
 Light, constant rain, evinces secret pow'r, 
 And ere the day resume its wonted smiles, 
 Presents a cheerful easy task for Giles.
 
 30 SUMMER. 
 
 Green Corn.... Sparrows. v. 47. 
 
 Down with a touch the mellow'd soil is laid, 
 And yon tall crop next claims his timely aid; 
 Thither well pleas'd he hies, assur'd to find 
 Wild trackless haunts, and objects to his mind. 
 
 Shot up from broad rank blades that droop below, 
 The nodding WHEAT-EAR forms a graceful bow, 
 With milky kernels starting full, weighed down, 
 Ere yet the sun hath ting'd its head with brown ; 
 Whilst thousands in a flock, for ever gay, 
 Loud chirping sparrows welcome on the day, 
 And from the mazes of the leafy thorn 
 Drop one by one upon the bending corn ; 
 Giles with a pole assails their close retreats, 
 And round the grass-grown dewy border beats, 
 On either side completely overspread, 
 Here branches bend, there corn o'ertops his head. 
 Green covert, hail ! for through the varying year 
 No hours so sweet, no scene to him so dear.
 
 SUMMER. 31 
 
 v. 65. Scenery.... full of life, and inspiring contemplation. 
 
 Here Wisdom's placid eye delighted sees 
 His frequent intervals of lonely ease, 
 And with one ray his infant soul inspires, 
 Just kindling there her never-dying fires, 
 Whence solitude derives peculiar charms, 
 And heaven-directed thought his bosom warms. 
 Just where the parting bough's light shadows play, 
 Scarce in the shade, nor in the scorching day, 
 Stretch'd on the turf he lies, a peopled bed, 
 Where swarming insects creep around his head. 
 The small dust-colour'd beetle climbs with pain 
 O'er the smooth plantain-leaf, a spacious plain ! 
 Thence higher still, by countless steps convey'd, 
 He gains the summit of a shiv'ring blade, 
 And flirts his filmy wings, and looks around, 
 Exulting in his distance from the ground. 
 The tender speckled moth here dancing seen, 
 The vaulting grasshopper of glossy green,
 
 32 S U M M E R. 
 
 The Sky-lark. v. 83. 
 
 And all prolific Summer's sporting train, 
 
 Their little lives by various pow'rs sustain. 
 
 But what can unassisted vision do? 
 
 What, but recoil where most it would pursue ; 
 
 His patient g % aze but finish with a sigh, 
 
 When music waking speaks the sky-lark nigh. 
 
 Just starting from the corn she cheerly sings, 
 
 And trusts with conscious pride her downy wings ; 
 
 Still louder breathes, and in the face of day 
 
 Mounts up, and calls on Giles to mark her way. 
 
 Close to his eyes his hat he instant bends, 
 
 And forms a friendly telescope, that lends 
 
 Just aid enough to dull the glaring light, 
 
 And place the wandVing bird before his sight; 
 
 Yet oft beneath a cloud she sweeps along, 
 
 Lost for awhile, yet pours her varied song : 
 
 He views the spot, and as the cloud moves by, 
 
 Again she stretches up the clear blue sky;
 
 SUMMER. 33 
 
 v. 101. Sky -lark.... Corn ripening. 
 
 Her form, her motion, undistinguish'd quite, 
 Save when she wheels direct from shade to light : 
 The flutt'ring songstress a mere speck became, 
 Like fancy's floating bubbles in a dream ; 
 He sees her yet, but yielding to repose, 
 Unwittingly his jaded eyelids close. 
 Delicious sleep ! From sleep who could forbear, 
 With no more guilt than Giles, and no more care; 
 Peace o'er his slumbers waves her guardian wing. 
 
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 Nor conscience once disturbs him with a sting; 
 He wakes refresh'd from eveiy trivial pain, 
 And takes his pole and brushes round again. 
 
 Its dark-green hue, its sicklier tints all fail, 
 And rip'ening harvest rustles in the gale. 
 A glorious sight, if glory dwells below, 
 Where Heaven's munificence makes all the show, 
 O'er every field and golden prospect found, 
 That glads the ploughman's Sunday morning's round, 
 
 F
 
 34 S U M M E R. 
 
 Pleasure from the views of Nature. v. 11Q. 
 
 When on some eminence he takes his stand, 
 To judge the smiling produce of the land. 
 Here Vanity slinks back, her head to hide : 
 What is there here to flatter human pride? 
 The tow'ring fabric, or the dome's loud roar, 
 And stedfast columns, may astonish more, 
 Where the charm 'd gazer long delighted stays, 
 Yet trac'd but to the architect the praise ; 
 Whilst here, the veriest clown that treads the sod, 
 Without one scruple, gives the praise to GOD; 
 And twofold joys possess his raptur'd mind, 
 From gratitude and admiration join'd. 
 
 Here, midst the boldest triumphs of her worth, 
 NATURE herself invites the REAPERS forth; 
 Dares the keen sickle from its twelvemonth's rest, 
 And gives that ardour which in every breast 
 From infancy to age alike appears, 
 When the first sheaf its plumy top uprears.
 
 SUMMER. 35 
 
 v. 137. Reapers.... Gleaning. 
 
 No rake takes here what Heaven to all bestows : 
 Children of want, for you the bounty flows ! 
 And every cottag % e from the plenteous store 
 Receives a burden nightly at its door. 
 
 Hark ! where the sweeping scythe now rips along ; 
 Each sturdy Mower emulous and strong ; 
 Whose writhing form meridian heat defies, 
 Bends o'er his work, and every sinew tries ; 
 Prostrates the waving treasure at his feet, 
 But spares the rising clover, short and sweet. 
 Come, HEALTH! come, Jollity! light-footed, come; 
 Here hold your revels, and make this your home. 
 Each heart awaits and hails you as its own ; 
 Each moisten'd brow, that scorns to wear a frown : 
 Th' unpeopled dwelling mourns its tenants stray'd ; 
 E'en the domestic laughing dairy-maid 
 Hies to the FIELD, the general toil to share. 
 Meanwhile the FARMER quits his elbow-chair,
 
 36 SUMMER. 
 
 The joy of the Farmer. v. 155. 
 
 His cool brick-floor, his pitcher, and his ease, 
 
 And braves the sultry beams, and gladly sees 
 
 His gates thrown open, and his team abroad, 
 
 The ready group attendant on his word, 
 
 To turn the swarth, the quiv'ring load to rear, 
 
 Or ply the busy rake, the land to clear. 
 
 Summer's light garb itself now cumb'rous grown, 
 
 Each his thin doublet in the shade throws down ; 
 
 Where oft the mastiff sculks with half-shut eye, 
 
 And rouses at the stranger passing by ; 
 
 Whilst unrestrain'd the social converse flows, 
 
 And every breast Love's pow'rful impulse knows, 
 
 And rival wits with more than rustic grace 
 
 Confess the presence of a pretty face ; 
 
 For, lo! encircled there, the iovely MAID, 
 
 In youth's own bloom and native smiles array'd ; 
 
 Her hat awry, divested of her gown, 
 
 Her creaking stays of leather, stout and brown;...
 
 SUMMER. 37 
 
 v. 173. The Country Maid. 
 
 Invidious barrier ! why art thou so high, 
 When the slight cov'ring of her neck slips by, 
 There half revealing to the eager sight 
 Her full, ripe bosom, exquisitely white ? 
 In many a local tale of harmless mirth, 
 And many a jest of momentary birth, 
 She bears a part, and as she stops to speak, 
 Strokes back the ringlets from her glowing cheek. 
 Now noon gone by, and four declining hours, 
 The weary limbs relax their boasted pow'rs ; 
 Thirst rages strong, the fainting spirits fail, 
 And ask the sovVeign cordial, home-brew'd ale : 
 Beneath some shelt'ring heap of yellow corn 
 Rests the hoop'd keg, and friendly cooling horn, 
 That mocks alike the goblet's brittle frame, 
 Its costlier potions, and its nobler name. 
 To Mary first the brimming draught is given, 
 By toil made welcome as the dews of heaven,
 
 38 SUMMER. 
 
 Harvest-Jield refreshment.... The Cart-horse. v. 191, 
 
 And never lip that press'd its homely edge 
 Had kinder blessings or a heartier pledge. 
 Of wholesome viands here a banquet smiles, 
 A common cheer for all;... e'en humble Giles, 
 Who joys his trivial services to yield 
 Amidst the fragrance of the open field ; 
 Oft doom'd in suffocating heat to bear 
 The cobweb'd barn's impure and dusty air; 
 To ride in murky state the panting steed, 
 Destin'd aloft th' unloaded grain to tread, 
 Where, in his path as heaps on heaps are thrown, 
 He rears, and plunges the loose mountain down : 
 Laborious task ! with what delight when done 
 Both horse and rider greet th' unclouded sun ! 
 Yet by th' unclouded sun are hourly bred 
 The bold assailants that surround thine head, 
 Poor patient Ball! and with insulting wing 
 Roar in thine ears, and dart the piercing sting;
 
 SUMMER. 39 
 
 v. 209. Docking of Horses condemned. 
 
 In thy behalf the crest-wav'd boughs avail 
 More than thy short-clipt remnant of a tail, 
 A moving mockery, a useless name, 
 A living proof of cruelty and shame. 
 Shame to the man, whatever fame he bore, 
 Who took from thee what man can ne'er restore, 
 Thy weapon of defence, thy chiefest good, 
 When swarming flies contending suck thy blood. 
 Nor thine alone the suff'ring, thine the care, 
 The fretful Ewe bemoans an equal^share ; 
 Tormented into sores, her head she hides, 
 Or angry brushes from her new-shorn sides. 
 Pen'd in the yard, e'en now at closing day 
 Unruly Cows with mark'd impatience stay, 
 And vainly striving to escape their foes, 
 The pail kick down ; a piteous current flows. 
 
 Is't not enough that plagues like these molest? 
 Must still another foe annoy their rest?
 
 40 SUM M E R. 
 
 Tfie Gander. v. 227- 
 
 He comes, the pest and terror of the yard, 
 His full-fledg'd progeny's imperious guard; 
 The GANDER;... spiteful, insolent, and bold, 
 At the colt's footlock takes his daring hold ; 
 There, serpent-like, escapes a dreadful blow; 
 And straight attacks a poor defenceless cow : 
 Each booby goose th' unworthy strife enjoys, 
 And hails his prowess with redoubled noise. 
 Then back he stalks, of self-importance full, 
 Seizes the shaggy foretop of the bull, 
 Till whiiTd aloft he falls; a timely check, 
 Enough to dislocate his worthless neck: 
 For lo ! of old, he boasts an honour'd wound ; 
 Behold that broken wing that trails the ground ! 
 Thus fools and bravoes kindred pranks pursue ; 
 As savage quite, and oft as fatal too. 
 Happy the man that foils an envious elf, 
 Using the darts of spleen to serve himself.
 
 SUMMER. 41 
 
 v. 245. Swine.... Repose of Twilight. 
 
 As when by turns the strolling Swine engage 
 The utmost efforts of the bully's rage, 
 Whose nibbling warfare on the grunter's side 
 Is welcome pleasure to his bristly hide; 
 Gently he stoops, or lays himself along, 
 Endures the insults of the gabbling throng, 
 That march exulting round his fallen head, 
 As human victors trample on their dead. 
 
 Still TWILIGHT, welcome! Rest, how sweet art thou 
 Now eve o'erhangs the western cloud's thick brow; 
 The far-stretch'd curtain of retiring light, 
 With fiery treasures fraught, that on the sight 
 Flash from its bulging sides, where darkness lours, 
 In Fancy's eye, a chain of mould'ring tow'rs ; 
 Or craggy coasts just rising into view, 
 Midst jav'lins dire, and darts of streaming blue. 
 Anon tir'd labourers bless their shelt'ring homes, 
 
 When MIDNIGHT, and the frightful TEMPEST comes. 
 
 G
 
 42 SUM M E R. 
 
 Midnight. ...Tempest. v. 263, 
 
 The Farmer wakes, and sees with silent dread 
 
 The angry shafts of Heaven gleam round his bed ; 
 
 The bursting cloud reiterated roars, 
 
 Shakes his straw roof, and jars his bolted doors: 
 
 The slow-wing'd storm along the troubled skies 
 
 Spreads its dark course ; the wind begins to rise ; 
 
 And full-leav'd elms, his dwelling's shade by day, 
 
 With mimic thunder give its fury way : 
 
 Sounds in his chimney top a doleful peal, 
 
 Midst pouring rain, or gusts of rattling hail; 
 
 With tenfold danger low the tempest bends, 
 
 And quick and strong the sulph'urous flame descends: 
 
 The fright'ned mastiff from his kennel flies, 
 
 And cringes at the door with piteous cries.... 
 
 Where now's the trifler? where the child of pride? 
 These are the moments when the heart is try'd ! 
 Nor lives the man with conscience e'er so clear, 
 But feels a solemn, reverential fear;
 
 SUMMER. 43 
 
 v. 281. Harvest-home. 
 
 Feels too a joy relieve his aching breast, 
 When the spent storm hath howl'd itself to rest. 
 Still, welcome beats the long continued show'r, 
 And sleep protracted, comes with double pow'r; 
 Calm dreams of bliss bring on the morning sun, 
 For every barn is filFd, and HARVEST done! 
 
 Now, ere sweet SUMMER bids its long adieu, 
 And winds blow keen where late the blossom grew, 
 The bustling day and jovial night must come, x 
 The long accustom'd feast of HARVEST-HOME. 
 No blood-stain'd victory, in story bright, 
 Can give the philosophic mind delight; 
 No triumph please whilst rage and death destroy : 
 Reflection sickens at the monstrous joy. 
 And where the joy, if rightly understood, 
 Like cheerful praise for universal good? 
 The soul nor check nor doubtful anguish knows, 
 But free and pure the grateful current flows.
 
 44 S U M M E R. 
 
 Freedom and equal joy of the Feast. v. 299. 
 
 
 Behold the sound oak table's massy frame 
 
 Bestride the kitchen floor! the careful dame 
 And gen'rous host invite their friends around, 
 While all that clear'd the crop, or till'd the ground, 
 Are guests by right of custom:... old and young; 
 And many a neighbouring yeoman join the throng, 
 With artizans that lent their dext'rous aid, 
 When o'er each field the flaming sun-beams play'd. 
 Yet Plenty reigns, and from her boundless hoard, 
 Though not one jelly trembles on the board, 
 Supplies the feast with all that sense can crave; 
 With all that made our great forefathers brave, 
 Ere the cloy'd palate countless flavours try'd, 
 And cooks had Nature's judgment set aside. 
 With thanks to Heaven, and tales of rustic lore, 
 The mansion echoes when the banquet's o'er; 
 A wider circle spreads, and smiles abound, 
 As quick the frotbifehorn performs its round;
 
 SUMMER. 45 
 
 v. 317. Ancient equality of this Festival. 
 
 Care's mortal foe ; that sprightly joys imparts 
 To cheer the frame and elevate their hearts. 
 Here, fresh and brown, the hazel's produce lies 
 In tempting heaps, and peals of laughter rise, 
 And crackling Music, with the frequent Song, 
 Unheeded bear the midnight hour along. 
 Here once a year Distinction low'rs its crest, 
 The master, servant, and the merry guest, 
 Are equal all; and round the happy ring 
 The reaper's eyes exulting glances fling, 
 And, warm'd with gratitude, he quits his place, 
 With sun-burnt hands and ale-enliven'd face, 
 Refills the jug his honour'd host to tend, 
 To serve at once the master and the friend ; 
 Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale, 
 His nuts, his conversation, and his ale. 
 
 Such were the days,... of days long past I sing,... 
 When Pride gave place to mirth without a sting ;
 
 46 S U M M E R. 
 
 Contrast of modern usage. v. 335. 
 
 Ere tyrant customs strength sufficient bore 
 
 To violate the feelings of the poor; 
 
 To leave them distanced in the mad'ning race, 
 
 Where'er Refinement shews its hated face : 
 
 Nor causeless hated; 'tis the peasant's curse, 
 
 That hourly makes his wretched station worse ; 
 
 Destroys life's intercourse;* the social plan 
 
 That rank to rank cements, as man to man : 
 
 Wealth flows around him, fashion lordly reigns; 
 
 Yet poverty is his, and mental pains. 
 
 Methinks I hear the mourner thus impart 
 
 The stifled murmurs of his wounded heart : 
 
 ' Whence comes this change, ungracious, irksome, cold ? 
 
 1 Whence the new grandeur that mine eyes behold? 
 
 ' The wid'ning distance which I daily see, 
 
 ' Has Wealth done this?... then wealth's a foe to me; 
 
 ' Foe to our rights; that leaves a pow'rfui few 
 
 ' The paths of emulation to pursue:... 
 
 * Vide note at the end of this volume.
 
 S U M M E R. 47 
 
 v. 353. Subject continued. 
 
 1 For emulation stoops to us no more : 
 
 ' The hope of humble industry is o'er; 
 
 ' The blameless hope, the cheering sweet presage 
 
 ' Of future comforts for declining age. 
 
 ' Can my sons share from this paternal hand 
 
 1 The profits with the labours of the land? 
 
 ( No; though indulgent Heaven its blessing deigns, 
 
 ' Where's the small farm to suit my scanty means ? 
 
 ' Content, the poet sings, with us resides, 
 
 1 In lonely cots like mine the damsel hides ; 
 
 ' And will he then in raptur'd visions tell 
 
 ' That sweet Content with Want can ever dwell? 
 
 ' A barley loaf, 'tis true, my table crowns, 
 
 ' That fast diminishing in lusty rounds, 
 
 ' Stops Nature's cravings ; yet her sighs will flow 
 
 ' From knowing this,... that once it was not so. 
 
 ' Our annual feast, when Earth her plenty yields, 
 
 ' When crown'd with boughs the last load quits the fields,
 
 48 SUMMER. 
 
 Continued. v. 371, 
 
 ' The aspect still of ancient joy puts on ; 
 
 * The aspect only, with the substance gone: 
 
 t The self-same Horn is still at our command, 
 
 ' But serves none now but the plebeian hand : 
 
 1 For home-breivd Ale, neglected and debas'd, 
 
 ' Is quite discarded from the realms of taste. 
 
 ' Where unaffected Freedom charm'd the soul, 
 
 ' The separate table and the costly bowl, 
 
 ' Cool as the blast that checks the budding Spring, 
 
 ' A mockery of gladness round them fling. 
 
 ' For oft the Farmer, ere his heart approves, 
 
 ' Yields up the custom which he dearly loves : 
 
 ' Refinement forces on him like a tide ; 
 
 ' Bold innovations down its current ride, 
 
 ' That bear no peace beneath their shewy dress, 
 
 ' Nor add one tittle to his happiness. 
 
 ' His guests selected; rank's punctilios known; 
 
 * What trouble waits upon a casual frown !
 
 SUMMER. 49 
 
 v. 389. Continued. 
 
 ' Restraint's foul manacles his pleasures maim; 
 
 * Selected guests selected phrases claim : 
 
 ' Nor reigns that joy when hand in hand they join 
 
 ' That good old Master felt in shaking mine. 
 
 ' HEAVEN bless his memory! bless his honoured name! 
 
 ' (The poor will speak his lasting worthy fame:) 
 
 ' To souls fair-purpos'd strength and guidance give; 
 
 * In pity to us still let goodness live : 
 
 ' Let labour have its due ! my cot shall be 
 ' From chilling want and guilty murmurs free : 
 ' Let labour have its due;... then peace is mine, 
 ' And never, never shall my heart repine.'
 
 AUTUMN.
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Acorns. Hogs in the -wood. J I 'heat -sowing. The Church. 
 Village girls. The mad girl. The bird-boy s hut. Dis- 
 appointments; re/lections, 8$c. Euston-hall. Fox-hunting. 
 Old Trouncer, Long nights. A welcome to Winter.
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 in. 
 
 AGAIN, the year's decline, midst storms and floods, 
 The thund'ring chase, the yellow fading woods, 
 Invite my song; that fain would boldly tell 
 Of upland coverts, and the echoing dell, 
 By turns resounding loud, at eve and morn 
 The swineherd's halloo, or the huntsman's horn. 
 
 No more the fields with scatter'd grain supply 
 The restless wand'ring tenants of the STY;
 
 54 AUTUMN. 
 
 Wood-scenery.... Swine and pigs feeding on fallen acorns, v. Q. 
 
 From oak to oak they run with eager haste, 
 
 And wrangling share the first delicious taste 
 
 Of fallen ACORNS; yet but thinly found 
 
 Till the strong gale have shook them to the ground. 
 
 It comes ; and roaring woods obedient wave : 
 
 Their home well pleas 'd the joint adventurers leave : 
 
 The trudging sow leads forth her numerous young, 
 
 Playful, and white, and clean, the briars among, 
 
 Till briars and thorns increasing, fence them round, 
 
 Where last year's mould'ring leaves bestrew the ground, 
 
 And o'er their heads, loud lash'd by furious squalls, 
 
 Bright from their cups the rattling treasure falls ; 
 
 Hot thirsty food ; whence doubly sweet and cool 
 
 The welcome margin of some rush-grown pool, 
 
 The wild duck's lonely haunt, whose jealous eye 
 
 Guards every point; who sits prepar'd to fly, 
 
 On the calm bosom of her little lake, 
 
 Too closely screen'd for ruffian winds to shake ;
 
 AUTUMN. 55 
 
 v. 27. Wild Ducks among the sedges. 
 
 And as the bold intruders press around, 
 
 At once she starts, and rises with a bound : 
 
 With bristles rais'd the sudden noise they hear, 
 
 And ludicrously wild, and wing'd with fear, 
 
 The herd decamp with more than swinish speed, 
 
 And snorting dash through sedge, and rush, and reed 
 
 Through tangling thickets headlong on they go, 
 
 Then stop, and listen for their fancied foe ; 
 
 The hindmost still the growing panic spreads, 
 
 Repeated fright the first alarm succeeds, 
 
 Till Folly's wages, wounds and thorns, they reap : 
 
 Yet glorying in their fortunate escape, 
 
 Their groundless terrors by degrees soon cease, 
 
 And Night's dark reign restores their wonted peace. 
 
 For now the gale subsides, and from each bough 
 
 The roosting pheasant's short but frequent crow 
 
 Invites to rest ; and huddling side by side, 
 
 The herd in closest ambush seek to hide;
 
 56 AUTUMN. 
 
 Hogs wandering in the wood...Huslandman's prospective care. v. 45. 
 
 Seek some warm slope with shagged moss o'erspreacl, 
 Dry'd leaves their copious covering and their bed. 
 In vain may Giles, through gath'ring glooms that fall, 
 And solemn silence, urge his piercing call : 
 Whole days and nights they tarry midst their store, 
 Nor quit the woods till oaks can yield no more. 
 
 Beyond bleak Winter's rage, beyond the Spring 
 That rolling Earth's unvarying course will bring, 
 Who tills the ground looks on with mental eye, 
 And sees next Summers sheaves and cloudless sky; 
 And even now, whilst Nature's beauty dies, 
 Deposits SEED, and bids new harvests rise; 
 Seed well prepar'd, and warm'd with glowing lime, 
 'Gainst earth-bred grubs, and cold, and lapse of time: 
 For searching frosts and various ills invade, 
 Whilst wint'ry months depress the springing blade. 
 The plough moves heavily, and strong the soil, 
 And clogging harrows with augmented toil
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 v. 63. Village Bells. 
 
 Dive deep : and clinging, mixes with the mould 
 A fat'ning treasure from the nightly fold, 
 And all the cow-yard's highly valu'd store, 
 That late bestrew'd the blacken'd surface o'er. 
 No idling hours are here, when Fancy trims 
 Her dancing taper over outstretch'd limbs, 
 And in her thousand thousand colours drest, 
 Plays round the grassy couch of noontide rest: 
 Here GILES for hours of indolence atones 
 With strong exertion, and with weary bones, 
 And knows no leisure; till the distant chime 
 Of Sabbath bells he hears at sermon time, 
 That down the brook sound sweetly in the gale, 
 Or strike the rising hill, or skim the dale. 
 
 Nor his alone the sweets of ease to taste : 
 Kind rest extends to all;... save one poor beast, 
 That true to time and pace, is doom'd to plod, 
 To bring the Pastor to the HOUSE of GOD:
 
 58 AUTUMN. 
 
 THE CHURCH. v. 81, 
 
 Mean structure ; where no bones of heroes lie ! 
 The rude inelegance of poverty 
 Reigns here alone: else why that roof of straw? 
 Those narrow windows with the frequent flaw? 
 O'er whose low cells the dock and mallow spreads, 
 And rampant nettles lift their spiry heads, 
 Whilst from the hollows of the tower on high 
 The grey-cap'd daws in saucy legions fly. 
 Round these lone walls assembling neighbours meet, 
 And tread departed friends beneath their feet; 
 And new-brier'd graves, that prompt the secret sigh, 
 Shew each the spot where he himself must lie. 
 Midst timely greetings village news goes round, 
 Of crops late shorn, or crops that deck the ground ; 
 Experienc'd ploughmen in the circle join; 
 While sturdy boys, in feats of strength to shine, 
 With pride elate their young associates brave 
 To jump from hollow-sounding grave to grave;
 
 AUTUMN. 59 
 
 v. 99. Village Girls.... The poor distracted young Woman. 
 
 Then close consulting, each his talent lends 
 To plan fresh sports when tedious service ends. 
 Hither at times, with cheerfulness of soul, 
 Sweet village Maids from neighbouring hamlets stroll, 
 That like the light-heel'd does o'er lawns that rove, 
 Look shyly curious; rip'ning into love; 
 For love's their errand : hence the tints that glow 
 On either cheek, an heighten'd lustre know : 
 When, conscious of their charms, e'en Age looks sly, 
 And rapture beams from Youth's observant eye. 
 THE PRIDE of such a party, Nature's pride, 
 Was lovely POLL;* who innocently try'd 
 With hat of airy shape and ribbons gay, 
 Love to inspire, and stand in Hymen's way: 
 But, ere her twentieth Summer could expand, 
 Or youth was render'd happy with her hand, 
 Her mind's serenity was lost and gone, 
 Her eye grew languid, and she wept alone ; 
 * MAHY RAYNER, of Ixworth Thorp.
 
 60 AUTUMN. 
 
 The subject continued. v. 117. 
 
 Yet causeless seem'd her grief; for quick restrain'd, 
 
 Mirth follow'd loud, or indignation reign'd : 
 
 Whims wild and simple led her from her home, 
 
 The heath, the common, or the fields to roam : 
 
 Terror and joy alternate rul'd her hours ; 
 
 Now blithe she sung, and gather'd useless flow'rs ; 
 
 Now pluck'd a tender twig from every bough, 
 
 To whip the hov'ring demons from her brow. 
 
 Ill-fated Maid ! thy guiding spark is fled, 
 
 And lasting wretchedness waits round thy bed... 
 
 Thy bed of straw ! for mark, where even now 
 
 O'er their lost child afflicted parents bow; 
 
 Their woe she knows not, but perversely coy, 
 
 Inverted customs yield her sullen joy; 
 
 Her midnight meals in secresy she takes, 
 
 Low mutt'ring to the moon, that rising breaks 
 
 Through night's dark gloom :... oh how much more forlorn 
 
 Her night, that knows of no returning dawn !...
 
 AUTUMN. 61 
 
 v. 135. Continued. 
 
 Slow from the threshold, once her infant seat, 
 O'er the cold earth she crawls to her retreat , 
 Quitting the cot's warm walls in filth to lie, 
 Where the swine grunting yields up half his sty; 
 The damp night air her shiv'ring limbs assails ; 
 In dreams she moans, and fancied wrongs bewails. 
 When morning wakes, none earlier rous'd than she, 
 When pendent drops fall glitt'ring from the tree ; 
 But nought her rayless melancholy cheers, 
 Or sooths her breast, or stops her streaming tears. 
 Her matted locks unornamented flow; 
 Clasping her knees, and waving to and fro;... 
 Her head bow'd down, her faded cheek to hide;... 
 A piteous mourner by the pathway side. 
 Some tufted molehill through the livelong day 
 She calls her throne ; there weeps her life away : 
 And oft the gaily passing stranger stays 
 His well-tim'd step, and takes a silent gaze,
 
 62 AUTUMN. 
 
 Continued. v. 153. 
 
 Till sympathetic drops unbidden start, 
 
 And pangs quick springing muster round his heart; 
 
 And soft he treads with other gazers round, 
 
 And fain would catch her sorrow's plaintive sound : 
 
 One word alone is all that strikes the ear, 
 
 One short, pathetic, simple word, . . . " Oh dear ! " 
 
 A thousand times repeated to the wind, 
 
 That wafts the sigh, but leaves the pang behind ! 
 
 For ever of the proffer'd parley shy, 
 
 She hears the' unwelcome foot advancing nigh ; 
 
 Nor quite unconscious of her wretched plight, 
 
 Gives one sad look, and hurries out of sight.... 
 
 Fair promis'd sunbeams of terrestrial bliss, 
 Health's gallant hopes,... and are ye sunk to this? 
 For in life's road though thorns abundant grow, 
 There still are joys poor Poll can never know; 
 Joys which the gay companions of her prime 
 Sip, as they drift along the stream of time ;
 
 AUTUMN. 63 
 
 v. 171. Chicken housed. 
 
 At eve to hear beside their tranquil home 
 The lifted latch, that speaks the lover come: 
 That love matur'd, next playful on the knee 
 To press the velvet lip of infancy; 
 To stay the tottering step, the features trace;... 
 Inestimable sweets of social peace ! 
 
 O THOU, who bidst the vernal juices rise! 
 Thou, on whose blasts autumnal foliage flies ! 
 Let Peace ne'er leave me, nor my heart grow cold, 
 Whilst life and sanity are mine to hold. 
 
 Shorn of their flow'rs that shed th' untreasur'd seed, 
 The withering pasture, and the fading mead, 
 Less tempting grown, diminish more and more, 
 The dairy's pride ; sweet Summer's flowing store. 
 New cares succeed, and gentle duties press, 
 Where the fire-side, a school of tenderness, 
 Revives the languid chirp, and warms the blood 
 Of cold-nipt weaklings of the latter brood,
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 The Hut. v. 189. 
 
 That from the shell just bursting into day, 
 Through yard or pond pursue their vent'rous way. 
 Far weightier cares and wider scenes expand ; 
 What devastation marks the new-sown land ! 
 " From hungry woodland foes go, Giles, and guard 
 The rising wheat; ensure its great reward: 
 A future sustenance, a Summer's pride, 
 Demand thy vigilance : then be it try'd : 
 Exert thy voice, and wield thy shotless gun : 
 Go, tarry there from morn till setting sun." 
 
 Keen blows the blast, or ceaseless rain descends ; 
 The half-stript hedge a sorry shelter lends. 
 O for a HOVEL, e'er so small or low, 
 Whose roof, repelling winds and early snow, 
 Might bring home's comforts fresh before his eyes ! 
 No sooner thought, than see the structure rise, 
 In some sequester'd nook, embank'd around, 
 Sods for its walls, and straw in burdens bound :
 
 AUTUMN. 65 
 
 v. 207. The pleasures of the Hut. 
 
 Dried fuel hoarded is his richest store, 
 
 And circling smoke obscures his little door; 
 
 Whence creeping forth, to duty's call he yields, 
 
 And strolls the Crusoe of the lonely fields. 
 
 On whitethorns tow'ring, and the leafless rose, 
 
 A frost-nipt feast in bright vermilion glows : 
 
 Where clust'ring sloes in glossy order rise, 
 
 He crops the loaded branch; a cumb'rous prize; 
 
 And o'er the flame the sputt'ring fruit he rests, 
 
 Placing green sods to seat his coming guests ; 
 
 His guests by promise; playmates young and gay:... 
 
 BUT AH! fresh pastimes lure their steps away! 
 
 He sweeps his hearth, and homeward looks in vain, 
 
 Till feeling Disappointment's cruel pain, 
 
 His fairy revels are exchang'd for rage, 
 
 His banquet marr'd, grown dull his hermitage. 
 
 The field becomes his prison, till on high 
 
 Benighted birds to shades and coverts fly. 
 
 K
 
 66 AUTUMN. 
 
 The Disappointment. v. 225. 
 
 Midst air, health, daylight, can he prisoner be? 
 
 If fields are prisons, where is Liberty? 
 
 Here still she dwells, and here her votaries stroll; 
 
 But disappointed hope untunes the soul: 
 
 Restraints unfelt whilst hours of rapture flow, 
 
 When troubles press, to chains and barriers grow. 
 
 Look then from trivial up to greater woes ; 
 
 From the poor bird-boy with his roasted sloes, 
 
 To where the dungeon'd mourner heaves the sigh ; 
 
 Where not one cheering sun-beam meets his eye. 
 
 Though ineifectual pity thine may be, 
 
 No wealth, no pow'r, to set the captive free ; 
 
 Though only to thy ravish'd sight is given 
 
 The golden path that HOWARD trod to heaven; 
 
 Thy slights can make the wretched more forlorn, 
 
 And deeper drive affliction's barbed thorn. 
 
 Say not, " I'll come and cheer thy gloomy cell 
 
 With news of dearest friends; how good, how well:
 
 AUTUMN. 67 
 
 v. 243. The cruelty of disappointing expectation. 
 
 I'll be a joyful herald to thine heart:" 
 Then fail, and play the worthless trifler's part, 
 To sip flat pleasures from thy glass's brim, 
 And waste the precious hour that's due to him. 
 In mercy spare the base unmanly blow: 
 Where can he turn, to whom complain of you? 
 Back to past joys in vain his thoughts may stray, 
 Trace and retrace the beaten worn-out way, 
 The rankling injury will pierce his breast, 
 And curses on thee break his midnight rest. 
 Bereft of song, and ever cheering green, 
 The soft endearments of the Summer scene, 
 New harmony pervades the solemn wood, 
 Dear to the soul, and healthful to the blood : 
 For bold exertion follows on the sound 
 Of distant sportsmen, and the chiding hound ; 
 First heard from kennel bursting, mad with joy, 
 Where smiling EUSTON boasts her good FITZROY,
 
 68 AUTUMN. 
 
 Euston Hall.... Fox- hunting. v. 261. 
 
 Lord of pure alms, and gifts that wide extend ; 
 
 The farmer's patron, and the poor man's friend : 
 
 Whose mansion glitt'ring with the eastern ray, _ 
 
 Whose elevated temple, points the way, 
 
 O'er slopes and lawns, the park's extensive pride, 
 
 To where the victims of the chace reside, 
 
 Ingulf 'd in earth, in conscious safety warm, 
 
 Till lo ! a plot portends their coming harm. 
 
 In earliest hours of dark unhooded morn, 
 Ere yet one rosy cloud bespeaks the dawn, 
 Whilst far abroad THE Fox pursues his prey, 
 He's doom'd to risk the perils of the day, 
 From his strong hold block'd out; perhaps to bleed, 
 Or owe his life to fortune or to speed. 
 For now the pack, impatient rushing on, 
 Range through the darkest coverts one by one; 
 Trace every spot; whilst down each noble glade 
 That guides the eye beneath a changeful shade,
 
 AUTUMN. 69 
 
 v. 279. The subject continued, 
 
 The loit'ring sportsman feels th' instinctive flame, 
 
 And checks his steed to mark the springing game. 
 
 Midst intersecting cuts and winding ways 
 
 The huntsman cheers his dogs, and anxious strays 
 
 Where every narrow riding, even shorn, 
 
 Gives back the echo of his mellow horn : 
 
 Till fresh and lightsome, every power untried, 
 
 The starting fugitive lea.ps by his side, 
 
 His lifted finger to his ear he plies, 
 
 And the view halloo bids a chorus rise 
 
 Of dogs quick-mouthed, and shouts that mingle loud, 
 
 As bursting thunder rolls from cloud to cloud. 
 
 With ears cropt short, and chest of vig'rous mould, 
 
 O'er ditch, o'er fence, unconquerably bold, 
 
 The shining courser lengthens every bound, 
 
 And his strong foot-locks suck the moisten 'd ground, 
 
 As from the confines of the wood they pour, 
 
 And joyous villages partake the roar.
 
 70 AUTUMN. 
 
 The Fox-hound. v. 297. 
 
 O'er heath far stretch'd, or down, or valley low, 
 The stiff-limb 'd peasant, glorying in the show, 
 Pursues in vain ; where youth itself soon tires, 
 Spite of the transports that the chace inspires ; 
 For who unmounted long can charm the eye, 
 Or hear the music of the leading cry? 
 
 Poor faithful TROUNCER! thou canst lead no more; 
 All thy fatigues and all thy triumphs o'er ! 
 Triumphs of worth, whose honorary fame 
 Was still to follow true the hunted game ; 
 Beneath enormous oaks, Britannia's boast, 
 In thick impenetrable coverts lost, 
 When the warm pack in fault'ring silence stood, 
 Thine was the note that rous'd the list'ning wood, 
 Rekindling every joy with tenfold force, 
 Through all the mazes of the tainted course. 
 Still foremost thou the dashing stream to cross, 
 And tempt along the animated horse;
 
 AUTUMN. 71 
 
 v. 315. Nol the ivorst subject of Poetry. 
 
 Foremost o'er fen or level mead to pass, 
 
 And sweep the show'ring dew-drops from the grass; 
 
 Then bright emerging from the mist below 
 
 To climb the woodland hill's exulting brow. 
 
 Pride of thy race ! with worth far less than thine r 
 Full many human leaders daily shine ! 
 Less faith, less constancy, less gen'rous zeal!... 
 Then no disgrace mine humble verse shall feel, 
 Where not one lying line to riches bows, 
 Or poison'd sentiment from rancour flows ; 
 Nor flowers are strewn around Ambition's car:... 
 An honest dog's a nobler theme by far. 
 Each sportsman heard the tidings with a sigh, 
 When Death's cold touch had stopt his tuneful cry; 
 And though high deeds, and fair exalted praise, 
 In memory liv'd, and flow'd in rustic lays, 
 Short was the strain of monumental woe : 
 " Foxes, rejoice! here buried lies your foe.* " 
 
 * Inscribed on a stone in Euston Park wall.
 
 72 AUTUMN. 
 
 Midnight.... Domes tic Fowl.... Shortened hours. v. 333. 
 
 In safety hous'd, throughout NIGHT'S lengthening reign, 
 The Cock sends forth a loud and piercing strain ; 
 More frequent, as the glooms of midnight flee, 
 And hours roll round, that brought him liberty, 
 When Summer's early dawn, mild, clear, and bright, 
 Chased quick away the transitory night:... 
 Hours now in darkness veil'd; yet loud the scream 
 Of Geese impatient for the playful stream ; 
 And all the feather'd tribe imprison'd raise 
 Their morning notes of inharmonious praise; 
 And many a clamorous Hen and cockrel gay, 
 When daylight slowly through the fog breaks way, 
 Fly wantonly abroad : but ah, how soon 
 The shades of twilight follow hazy noon, 
 Short'ning the busy day!. ..day that slides by 
 Amidst th' unfmish'd toils of HUSBANDRY; 
 Toils still each morn resum'd with double care, 
 To meet the icy terrors of the year;
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 73 
 
 V. 351. 
 
 Closing Reflections. 
 
 To meet the threats of Boreas undismay'd, 
 And Winter's gathering frowns and hoary head. 
 
 THEN welcome, COLD; welcome, ye snowy nights! 
 Heaven midst your rage shall mingle pure delights, 
 And confidence of hope the soul sustain, 
 While devastation sweeps along the plain : 
 Nor shall the child of poverty despair, 
 But bless THE POWER that rules the changing year; 
 Assur'd, ... though horrors round his cottage reign,... 
 That Spring will come, and Nature smile again.
 
 WINTER.
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Tenderness to cattle. Frozen turnips. The cow-yard. Night. 
 The farm-house. Fire-side. Farmer's advice and instruc- 
 tion. Nightly cares of the stable. Dobbin. The post- 
 horse. Sheep-stealing dogs. Walks occasioned thereby. 
 The ghost. Lamb time. Returning Spring. Conclusion.
 
 WINTER. 
 
 IV. 
 
 WITH kindred pleasures mov'd, and cares opprest, 
 
 Sharing alike our weariness and rest ; 
 
 Who lives the daily partner of our hours, 
 
 Through every change of heat, and frost, and show'rs 
 
 Partakes our cheerful meals, partaking first 
 
 In mutual labour and in mutual thirst; 
 
 The kindly intercourse will ever prove 
 
 A bond of amity and social love.
 
 78 WINTER. 
 
 Benevolence springing from mutual sufferings and pleasures, v. 9. 
 
 To more than man this generous warmth extends, 
 And oft the team and shiv'ring herd befriends ; 
 Tender solicitude the bosom fills, 
 And Pity executes what Reason wills : 
 Youth learns compassion's tale from every tongue, 
 And flies to aid the helpless and the young; 
 When now, unsparing as the scourge of war, 
 Blasts follow blasts, and groves dismantled roar. 
 Around their home the storm-pinch'd CATTLE lows, 
 No nourishment in frozen pastures grows; 
 Yet frozen pastures every morn resound 
 With fair abundance thund'ring to the ground. 
 For though on hoary twigs no buds peep out, 
 And e'en the hardy bramble cease to sprout, 
 Beneath dread WINTER'S level sheets of snow 
 The sweet nutritious Turnip deigns to grow. 
 Till now imperious want and wide-spread dearth 
 Bid Labour claim her treasures from the earth.
 
 WINTER. 79 
 
 v. 27. Ice broken and snow cleared for the cattle. 
 
 On GILES, and such as Giles, the labour falls, 
 To strew the frequent load where hunger calls. 
 On driving gales sharp hail indignant flies, 
 And sleet, more irksome still, assails his eyes; 
 Snow clogs his feet ; or if no snow is seen, 
 The field with all its juicy store to screen, 
 Deep goes the frost, till every root is found 
 A rolling mass of ice upon the ground. 
 No tender ewe can break her nightly fast, 
 Nor heifer strong begin the cold repast, 
 Till Giles with pond'rous beetle foremost go, 
 And scatt'ring splinters fly at every blow; 
 When pressing round him, eager for the prize, 
 From their mixt breath warm exhalations rise. 
 
 If now in beaded rows drops deck the spray, 
 While Phoebus grants a momentary ray, 
 Let but a cloud's broad shadow intervene, 
 And stiffen'd into gems the drops are seen ;
 
 80 W I N T E R. 
 
 Night. v. 45. 
 
 And down the furrow'd oak's broad southern side 
 Streams of dissolving rime no longer glide. 
 
 o o o 
 
 THOUGH NIGHT approaching bids for rest prepare, 
 Still the flail echoes through the frosty air, 
 Nor stops till deepest shades of darkness come, 
 Sending at length the weary laborer home. 
 From him, with bed and nightly food supplied, 
 Throughout the yard, hous'd round on every side, 
 Deep-plunging Cows their rustling feast enjoy, 
 And snatch sweet mouthfuls from the passing boy, 
 Who moves unseen beneath his trailing load, 
 Fills the tali racks, and leaves a scatter'd road; 
 Where oft the swine from ambush warm and dry 
 Bolt out, and scamper headlong to their sty, 
 When Giles with well-known voice, already there, 
 Deigns them a portion of his evening care. 
 
 Him, though the cold may pierce, and storms molest, 
 Succeeding hours shall cheer with warmth and rest :
 
 WINTER. 81 
 
 v. 63. Christmas Fire. 
 
 Gladness to spread, and raise the grateful smile, 
 He hurls the faggot bursting from the pile, 
 And many a log and rifted trunk conveys, 
 To heap the fire, and to extend the blaze 
 That quiv'ring strong through every opening flies, 
 Whilst smoaky columns unobstructed rise. 
 For the rude architect, unknown to fame, 
 (Nor symmetry nor elegance his aim) 
 Who spread his floors of solid oak on high, 
 On beams rough-hewn, from age to age that lie, 
 Bade his wide Fabric unimpair'd sustain 
 Pomona's store, and cheese, and golden grain ; 
 Bade from its central base, capacious laid, 
 The well-wrought chimney rear its lofty head; 
 Where since hath many a savoury ham been stor'd, 
 And tempests howl'd, and Christmas gambols roar'd. 
 FLAT on the hearth the glowing embers lie, 
 
 And flames reflected dance in every eye : 
 
 M
 
 82 WINTER. 
 
 Conversation. v. 81, 
 
 There the long billet, forc'd at last to bend, 
 
 While frothing sap gushes at either end, 
 
 Throws round its welcome heat:... the ploughman smiles, 
 
 And oft the joke runs hard on sheepish Giles r 
 
 Who sits joint tenant of the corner-stool, 
 
 The converse sharing, though in duty's school; 
 
 For now attentively 'tis his to hear 
 
 Interrogations from the Master's chair. 
 
 ' LEFT ye your bleating charge, when daylight fled,. 
 ( Near where the hay-stack lifts its snowy head? 
 ' Whose fence of bushy furze, so close and warm, 
 1 May stop the slanting bullets of the storm. 
 ' For, hark ! it blows ; a dark and dismal night : 
 ' Heaven guide the traveller's fearful steps aright J 
 ' Now from the woods, mistrustful and sharp-ey'd, 
 ' The Fox in silent darkness seems to glide, 
 ' Stealing around us, list'ning as he goes, 
 ' If chance the Cock or stamm'ring capon crows,
 
 WINTER. 83 
 
 v. 99. Contrast between the inconvenience at Land and a Sea-storm. 
 
 ( Or Goose, or nodding Duck, should darkling cry, 
 
 ' As if appriz'd of lurking danger nigh : 
 
 ' Destruction waits them, Giles, if e'er you fail 
 
 ' To bolt their doors against the driving gale. 
 
 ' Strew'd you (still mindful of the unshelter'd head) 
 
 ' Burdens of straw, the cattle's welcome bed? 
 
 ' Thine heart should feel, what thou may'st hourly see, 
 
 * That dutys basis is humanity. 
 
 ' Of pain's unsavoury cup though thou may'st taste, 
 ' (The wrath of Winter from the bleak north-east, ) 
 ' Thine utmost suff 'rings in the coldest day 
 
 * A period terminates, and joys repay. 
 
 ' Perhaps e'en now, whilst here those joys we boast, 
 ' Full many a bark rides down the neighb'ring coast, 
 ' Where the high northern waves tremendous roar, 
 ' Drove down by blasts from Norway's icy shore. 
 ' The Sea-boy there, less fortunate than thou, 
 1 Feels all thy pains in all the gusts that blow ;
 
 84 WINTER. 
 
 Effect of the Farmer's kind admonitions. v. 117. 
 
 ' His freezing hands now drench VI, now dry, by turns; 
 
 * Now lost, now seen, the distant light that burns, 
 ' On some tall cliff uprais'd, a flaming guide, 
 
 ' That throws its friendly radiance o'er the tide. 
 ' His labours cease not with declining day, 
 ' But toils and perils mark his watry way; 
 1 And whilst in peaceful dreams secure we lie, 
 
 * The ruthless whirlwinds rage along the sky, 
 
 ' Round his head whistling;... and shalt thou repine, 
 ' Whilst this protecting roof still shelters thine?' 
 Mild, as the vernal show'r, his words prevail, 
 And aid the moral precept of his tale : 
 His wond'ring hearers learn, and ever keep 
 These first ideas of the restless deep; 
 And, as the opening mind a circuit tries, 
 Present felicities in value rise. 
 Increasing pleasures every hour they find, 
 The warmth more precious, and the shelter kind;
 
 WINTER. 85 
 
 v. 135. Sleep.... renewed labour. 
 
 Warmth that long reigning bids the eyelids close, 
 As through the blood its balmy influence goes, 
 When the cheer'd heart forgets fatigues and cares, 
 And drowsiness alone dominion bears. 
 
 Sweet then the ploughman's slumbers, hale and young, 
 When the last topic dies upon his tongue; 
 Sweet then the bliss his transient dreams inspire, 
 Till chilblains wake him, or the snapping fire : 
 
 He starts, and ever thoughtful of his team, 
 Along the glitt'ring snow a feeble gleam 
 Shoots from his lantern, as he yawning goes 
 To add fresh comforts to their night's repose ; 
 Diffusing fragrance as their food he moves, 
 And pats the jolly sides of those he loves. 
 Thus full replenish'd, perfect ease possest, 
 From night till morn alternate food and rest, 
 No rightful cheer withheld, no sleep debar'd, 
 Their each day's labour brings its sure reward.
 
 86 WINTER. 
 
 The Farmer's and Pos.t -horse contrasted. v. 153. 
 
 Yet when from plough or lumb'ring cart set free, 
 They taste awhile the sweets of liberty: 
 E'en sober Dobbin lifts his clumsy heels 
 And kicks, disdainful of the dirty wheels ; 
 But soon, his frolic ended, yields again 
 To trudge the road, and wear the clinking chain. 
 Short-sighted DOBBIN !...thou canst only see 
 The trivial hardships that encompass thee : 
 Thy chains were freedom, and thy toils repose, 
 Could the poor post-horse tell thee all his woes ; 
 Shew thee his bleeding shoulders, and unfold 
 The dreadful anguish he endures for gold : 
 Hir'd at each call of business, lust, or rage, 
 That prompt the traveller on from stage to stage. 
 Still on his strength depends their boasted speed; 
 For them his limbs grow weak, his bare ribs bleed ; 
 And though he groaning quickens at command, 
 Their extra shilling in the rider's hand
 
 WINTER. 87 
 
 v. 171. The sufferings of the Post-horse continued. 
 
 Becomes his bitter scourge:... 'tis he must feel 
 The double efforts of the lash and steel ; 
 Till when, up-hill, the destin'd inn he gains, 
 And trembling under complicated pains, 
 Prone from his nostrils, darting on the ground, 
 His breath emitted floats in clouds around : 
 Drops chase each other down his chest and sides, 
 And spatter'd mud his native colour hides : 
 Through his swoln veins the boiling torrent flows, 
 And every nerve a separate torture knows. 
 His harness loos'd, he welcomes eager-eyed 
 The pail's full draught that quivers by his side; 
 And joys to see the well-known stable door, 
 As the starv'd mariner the friendly shore. 
 
 Ah, well for him if here his sufferings ceas'd, 
 And ample hours of rest his pains appeas'd ! 
 But rous'd again, and sternly bade to rise, 
 And shake refreshing slumber from his eyes,
 
 88 WINTER. 
 
 Patience recommended from comparison. v. 189. 
 
 Ere his exhausted spirits can return, 
 
 Or through his frame reviving ardour burn, 
 
 Come forth he must, though limping, maim'd, and sore ; 
 
 He hears the whip; the chaise is at the door:... 
 
 The collar tightens, and again he feels 
 
 His half-heal'd wounds inflam'd ; again the wheels 
 
 With tiresome sameness in his ears resound, 
 
 O'er blinding dust, or miles of flinty ground. 
 
 Thus nightly robb'd, and injur'd day by day, 
 
 His piece-meal murdVers wear his life away. 
 
 What say'st thou, Dobbin ? what though hounds await 
 With open jaws the moment of thy fate, 
 No better fate attends his public race ; 
 His life is misery, and his end disgrace. 
 Then freely bear thy burden to the mill, 
 Obey but one short law,... thy driver's will. 
 Affection, to thy memory ever true, 
 Shall boast of mighty loads that Dobbin drew;
 
 WINTER. 89 
 
 v. 207. The Mastiff. 
 
 And back to childhood shall the mind with pride 
 Recount thy gentleness in many a ride 
 To pond, or field, or village fair, when thou 
 Held'st high thy braided mane and comely brow; 
 And oft the Tale shall rise to homely fame 
 Upon thy gen'rous spirit and thy name. 
 
 Though faithful to a proverb, we regard 
 The midnight chieftain of the farmer's yard, 
 Beneath whose guardianship all hearts rejoice, 
 Woke by the echo of his hollow voice; 
 Yet as the Hound may fault'ring quit the pack, 
 Snuff the foul scent, and hasten yelping back; 
 And e'en the docile Pointer know disgrace, 
 Thwarting the gen'ral instinct of his race ; 
 E'en so the MASTIFF, or the meaner Cur, 
 At times will from the path of duty err, 
 (A pattern of fidelity by day; 
 By night a murderer, lurking for his prey;) 
 
 N
 
 90 W I N T E R. 
 
 A Sheep-liter by night. v. 225. 
 
 And round the pastures or the fold will creep, 
 And, coward-like, attack the peaceful sheep : 
 Alone the wanton mischief he pursues, 
 Alone in reeking blood his jaws embrues ; 
 Chasing amain his fright'ned victims round, 
 Till death in wild confusion strews the ground; 
 Then wearied out, to kennel sneaks away, 
 And licks his guilty paws till break of day. 
 
 The deed discover'd, and the news once spread,. 
 Vengeance hangs o'er the unknown culprit's head, 
 And careful Shepherds extra hours bestow 
 In patient watchmgs for the common foe ; 
 A foe most dreaded now, when rest and peace 
 Should wait the season of the flock's increase. 
 
 In part these nightly terrors to dispel, 
 GILES, ere he sleeps, his little Flock must tell. 
 From the fire-side with many a shrug he hies, 
 Glad if the full-orb'd Moon salute his eyes,
 
 WINTER. 91 
 
 v. 243. Moon-light.... scattered clouds. 
 
 And through the unbroken stillness of the night 
 Shed on his path her beams of cheering light. 
 With saunt'ring step he climbs the distant stile, 
 Whilst all around him wears a placid smile; 
 There views the white-fob'd clouds in clusters driv'n, 
 And all the glorious pageantry of heav'n. 
 Low, on the utmost bound'ry of the sight, 
 The rising vapours catch the silver light; 
 Thence Fancy measures, as they parting fly, 
 Which first will throw its shadow on the eye, 
 Passing the source of light; and thence away, 
 Succeeded quick by brighter still than they. 
 For yet above these wafted clouds are seen 
 (In a remoter sky, still more serene, ) 
 Others, detach'd in ranges through the air, 
 Spotless as snow, and countless as they're fair; 
 Scatter'd immensely wide from east to west, 
 The beauteous 'semblance of a Flock at rest.
 
 92 WINTER. 
 
 The Spectre. v. 261, 
 
 These, to the raptur'd mind, aloud proclaim 
 Their MIGHTY SHEPHERD'S everlasting Name. 
 Whilst thus the loit'rer's utmost stretch of soul 
 Climbs the still clouds, or passes those that roll, 
 And loos'd Imagination soaring goes 
 High o'er his home, and all his little woes, 
 
 TIME glides away; neglected Duty calls : 
 At once from plains of light to earth he falls, 
 And down a narrow lane, well known by day, 
 With all his speed pursues his sounding way, 
 In thought still half absorb'd, and chill'd with cold ; 
 When, lo ! an object frightful to behold ; 
 A grisly SPECTRE, cloth'd in silver-grey, 
 Around whose feet the waving shadows play, 
 Stands in his path!... He stops, and not a breath 
 Heaves from his heart, that sinks almost to death. 
 Loud the owl halloos o'er his head unseen ; 
 All else is silent, dismally serene :
 
 WINTER. 93 
 
 v. 279. The Explanation. 
 
 Some prompt ejaculation, whisper'd low, 
 
 Yet bears him up against the threat'ning foe ; 
 
 And thus poor Giles, though half inclin'd to fly, 
 
 Mutters his doubts, and strains his stedfast eye. 
 
 ' Tis not my crimes thou coin'st here to reprove ; 
 
 ' No murders stain my soul, no perjur'd love : 
 
 ' If thou'rt indeed what here thou seem'st to be, 
 
 4 Thy dreadful mission cannot reach to me. 
 
 ' By parents taught still to mistrust mine eyes, 
 
 ' Still to approach each object of surprise, 
 
 * Lest Fancy's formful visions should deceive 
 
 ' In moon-light paths, or glooms of falling eve, 
 
 ' This then's the moment when my heart should try 
 
 ' To scan thy motionless deformity; 
 
 1 But oh, the fearful task ! yet well I know 
 
 ' An aged ash, with many a spreading bough, 
 
 ' (Beneath whose leaves I've found a Summer's bow'r, 
 
 ' Beneath whose trunk I've weather'd many a show'r,)
 
 94 WINTER. 
 
 The terrors of surprise vanish on the use of recollection, v. 297. 
 
 ' Stands singly down this solitary way, 
 
 ' But far beyond where now my footsteps stay. 
 
 * Tis true,' thus far I've come with heedless haste ; 
 
 * No reck'ning kept, no passing objects trac'd:... 
 ' And can I then have reach'd that very tree ? 
 
 * Or is its reverend form assum'd by thee ? ' 
 The happy thought alleviates his pain : 
 
 He creeps another step; then stops again; 
 
 Till slowly, as his noiseless feet draw near, 
 
 Its perfect lineaments at once appear; 
 
 Its crown of shiv'ring ivy whispering peace, 
 
 And its white bark that fronts the moon's pale face. 
 
 Now, whilst his blood mounts upward, now he knows 
 
 The solid gain that from conviction flows ; 
 
 And strengthen'd Confidence shall hence fulfill 
 
 (With conscious Innocence more valued still) 
 
 The dreariest task that winter nights can bring, 
 
 By church-yard dark, or grove, or fairy ring;
 
 WINTER. 95 
 
 % 
 
 v. 315. Counting of the Sheep in the fold. 
 
 Still buoying up the timid mind of youth, 
 
 Till loit'ring Reason hoists the scale of Truth. 
 
 With these blest guardians Giles his course pursues, 
 
 Till numbering his heavy-sided ewes, 
 
 Surrounding stillness tranquilize his breast, 
 
 And shape the dreams that wait his hours of rest. 
 
 As when retreating tempests we behold, 
 Whose skirts at length the azure sky unfold, 
 And full of murmurings and mingled wrath, 
 Slowly unshroud the smiling face of earth, 
 Bringing the bosom joy : so WINTER flies!... 
 And see the Source of Life and Light uprise ! 
 A heightening arch o'er southern hills he bends ; 
 W T arm on the cheek the slanting beam descends, 
 And gives the reeking mead a brighter hue, 
 And draws the modest primrose bud to view. 
 Yet frosts succeed, and winds impetuous rush, 
 And hail-storms rattle through the budding bush;
 
 96 WINTER. 
 
 Turn of the season towards Spring.... Ewes and Lambs, v. 333. 
 
 And night-fall'n LAMBS require the shepherd's care, 
 And teeming EWES, that still their burdens bear; 
 Beneath whose sides tomorrow's dawn may see 
 The milk-white strangers bow the trembling knee ; 
 At whose first birth the pow'rful instinct's seen 
 That fills with champions the daisied green : 
 For ewes that stood aloof with fearful eye, 
 With stamping foot now men and dogs defy, 
 And obstinately faithful to their young, 
 Guard their first steps to join the bleating throng. 
 But casualties and death from damps and cold 
 Will still attend the well-conducted fold : 
 Her tender offspring dead, the dam aloud 
 Calls, and runs wild amidst the unconscious crowd : 
 And orphan'd sucklings raise the piteous cry; 
 No wool to warm them, no defenders nigh. 
 And must her streaming milk then flow in vain ? 
 Must unregarded innocence complain ?
 
 WINTER. 97 
 
 v. 351. Adopted Lambs. 
 
 No;... ere this strong solicitude subside, 
 
 Maternal fondness may be fresh apply'd, 
 
 And the adopted stripling still may find 
 
 A parent most assiduously kind. 
 
 For this he's doom'd awhile disguis'd to range, 
 
 (For fraud or force must work the wish'd-for change;) 
 
 For this his predecessor's skin he wears, 
 
 Till cheated into tenderness and cares, 
 
 The unsuspecting dam, contented grown, 
 
 Cherish and guard the fondling as her own. 
 
 Thus all by turns to fair perfection rise ; 
 Thus twins are parted to increase their size : 
 Thus instinct yields as interest points the way, 
 Till the bright flock, augmenting every day, 
 On sunny hills and vales of springing flow'rs 
 With ceaseless clamour greet the vernal hours. 
 
 The humbler Shepherd here with joy beholds 
 
 The approv'd economy of crowded folds, 
 
 o
 
 WINTER. 
 
 The triumph of GILES as the Year ends. v. 369. 
 
 
 And, in his small contracted round of cares, 
 
 Adjusts the practice of each hint he hears : 
 For Boys with emulation learn to glow, 
 And boast their pastures, and their healthful show 
 Of well-grown Lambs, the glory of the Spring; 
 And field to field in competition bring. 
 
 E'en GILES, for all his cares and watchings past, 
 And all his contests with the wintry blast, 
 Claims a full share of that sweet praise bestow'd 
 By gazing neighbours, when along the road, 
 Or village green, his curly- coated throng 
 Suspends the chorus of the spinner's song; 
 When Admiration's unaffected grace 
 Lisps from the. tongue, and beams in every face : 
 Delightful moments!... Sunshine, Health, and Joy, 
 Play round, and cheer the elevated Boy ! 
 ' Another SPRING! ' his heart exulting cries; 
 ' Another YEAR ! with promis'd blessings rise !...
 
 v. 387. 
 
 W I N T E R. 
 
 CONCLUDING INVOCATION. 
 
 ' ETERNAL POWER! from whom those blessings flow, 
 
 1 Teach me still more to wonder, more to know : 
 
 ' Seed-time and Harvest let me see again ; 
 
 ' Wander the leaf -strewn wood, the frozen plain : 
 
 ' Let the first Flower, corn-waving Field, Plain, Tree, 
 
 ' Here round my home, still lift my soul to THEE; 
 
 ' And let me ever, midst thy bounties, raise 
 
 ' An humble note of thankfulness and praise ! ' 
 
 APRIL 22, 1798.
 
 101 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 Destroys life's intercourse', the social plan. P. 46, 1. 341. 
 
 " ALLOWING for the imperfect state of sublunary happiness, which is 
 comparative at best, there are not, perhaps, many nations existing whose 
 situation is so desirable} where the means of subsistence are so easy, and 
 the wants of the people so few.... The evident distinction of ranks, which 
 subsists at Otafaite, does not so materially affect the felicity of the nation 
 as we might have supposed. The simplicity of their whole life contributes 
 to soften the appearance of distinctions, and to reduce them to a level. 
 Where the climate and the custom of the country do not absolutely require 
 a perfect garment; where it is easy at every step to gather as many plants 
 as form not only a decent, but likewise a customary covering ; and where 
 all the necessaries of life are within the reach of every individual, at the 
 expence of a trifling labour 5.. .ambition and envy must in a great measure 
 be unknown. It is true, the highest classes of people possess some dainty 
 articles, such as pork, fish, fowl, and cloth, almost exclusively ; but the 
 desire of indulging the appetite in a few trifling luxuries can at most 
 render individuals, and not whole nations, unhappy. Absolute want oc- 
 casions the miseries of the lower class in some civilized states, and is the 
 result of the unbounded voluptuousness of their superiors. At Otaheite 
 there is not, in general, that disparity between the highest and the meanest
 
 102 
 
 man, that subsists in England between a reputable tradesman and a labourer. 
 The affection of the Otaheitans for their chiefs, which they never failed to 
 express upon all occasions, gave us great reason to suppose that they con- 
 sider themselves as one family, and respect their eldest born in the persons 
 of their chiefs. The lowest man in the nation speaks as freely with his 
 king as with his equal, and has the pleasure of seeing him as often as he 
 likes. The king, at times, amuses himself with the occupations of his 
 subjects; and not yet depraved by false notions of empty state, he often 
 paddles his own canoe, without considering such an employment derogatory 
 to his dignity. Hew long such an happy equality may last is uncertain, 
 and how much the introduction of foreign luxuries may hasten its disso- 
 lution cannot be too frequently repeated to Europeans. If the knowledge 
 of a few individuals can only be acquired at such a price as the happiness 
 of nations, it were better for the discoverers and the discovered that the 
 Swth Sea had still remained unknown to Europe and its restless inhabi- 
 tants." 
 
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 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 interval of nearly two years. The pieces 
 of a later date are, the Widow to her Hour-Glass, 
 the Fakenham Ghost, Walter and Jane, &c. At 
 the time of publishing the Farmer's Boy, circum- 
 stances 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-tim'd to avow, that I have hopes of
 
 vi PREFACE. 
 
 meeting in some degree the approbation of my 
 Country. I was not prepar'd for the decided, and 
 I may surely say extraordinary attention which 
 the Public has shewn towards the Farmer's Boy: 
 the consequence has been such as my true friends 
 will rejoice to hear; it has produc'd me many 
 essential blessings. And I feel peculiarly grati- 
 fied in finding that a poor man in England may 
 assert the dignity of Virtue, and speak of the im- 
 perishable 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. 
 LOFFT. 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
 
 PREFACE. vii 
 
 such fleeting pleasures as the world's business may 
 afford him. I speak not of that gentleman as a 
 public 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 morality; his manners gentle, his heart 
 sincere: and I regard it as one of the most for- 
 tunate circumstances of my life, that my intro- 
 duction 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 fill'd with the most cordial advice, and almost 
 
 * 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 Bloonifield introduced the Farmer's Boy to 
 me. C. L.
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 a parental 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 hereafter give me my deserts, and no 
 more. 
 
 One piece in this collection -will inform the 
 reader of my most pleasing visit to Wakefield 
 Lodge: books, solitude, and objects entirely new, 
 brought pleasures which memory will always 
 cherish. That noble and worthy Family, and all 
 my immediate and unknown Friends, will, I hope, 
 believe the sincerity of my thanks for all their 
 numerous favours, and candidly judge the Poems 
 before them. 
 
 R. BLOOMFIELD. 
 
 SEPT. 29, 1801.
 
 PEACE. ix 
 
 P. S. Since affixing the above date, an event 
 of much greater importance than any to which I 
 have been witness, has taken place, to the uni- 
 versal 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 believes it to be sincere. 
 
 OCTOBER 10. 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 HALT! ye Legions, sheathe your Steel: 
 Blood grows precious; shed no more: 
 Cease your toils; your wounds to heal 
 Lo! beams of Mercy reach the shore 1 . 
 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. 
 
 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 I along th' etherial sky 
 Her beams o'er conquering Navies spread; 
 Peace ! Peace ! the leaping Sailors cry, 
 With shouts that might arouse the dead. 
 
 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 s done: 
 While here the tear of transport falls, 
 To grace your Laurels nobly won.
 
 PEACE. xi 
 
 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. 
 
 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 War, of Winds, and Waves, 
 Accept a prostrate Nation's praise.
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Page 28, line 1, for Mon read Man. 
 56, 13, for thy read my.
 
 RICHARD AND KATE: 
 
 OR, 
 
 FAIR-DAY. 
 
 A SUFFOLK BALLAD. 
 
 1 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; ay, and mere than that. 
 
 B
 
 RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 The Deliberation. 
 
 * Have you forgot, KATE, prithee say, 
 
 1 How many Seasons here we've tarry 'cl? 
 
 ' Tis Forty years, this very day, 
 
 ' Since you and I, old Girl, were married! 
 
 * Look out; the Sun shines warm and bright, 
 ' The Stiles are low, the paths all dry ; 
 
 i I know you cut your corns last night : 
 ' Come; be as free from care as I. 
 
 ' For I'm resolv'd once more to see 
 
 * That place where we so often met; 
 
 * Though few have had more cares than we, 
 1 We've none just now to make us fret.' 
 
 KATE scorn'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.
 
 RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 Difficulties Consen t . 
 
 ' Night will come on; when seated snug, 
 ' And you've perhaps begun some tale, 
 * Can you then leave your dear stone mug; 
 1 Leave all the folks, and all the Ale?' 
 
 'Ay, KATE, I wool; because I know, 
 1 Though time has been we both could run, 
 1 Such days are gone and over now; 
 \ 'I only mean to see the fun. ' 
 
 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. 
 
 His Mattock he behind the door 
 And Hedging-gioves again replac'd; 
 And look'd across the yellow Moor, 
 And urg'd his tott'ring Spouse to haste. 
 
 * * Terms used in spinning. -J- Hutch, a chest.
 
 RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 The Walk to the Fair. 
 
 Tlife 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 ' When once a gigling Mawther you, 
 ' And I a redfac'd chubby Boy, 
 ; Sly tricks you play'd me not a few; 
 ' For mischief was your greatest joy. 
 
 * Once, passing by this very Tree, 
 ' A Gotch * of Milk I'd been to fill, 
 ' You shoulder'd me; then laugh'd to see 
 1 Me and my Gotch spin down the Hill.' 
 * A pitcher.
 
 RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 Discourse on past Days. 
 
 1 Tis true,' she said; ' but here behold, 
 ' And marvel at the course of Time; 
 ' Though you and I are both grown old, 
 
 * This Tree is only in its prime ! ' 
 
 * 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.' 
 
 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. 
 
 At length arriv'd amidst the throng, 
 Grand-children bawling hem'd them round; 
 And dragg'd them by the skirts along 
 Where gingerbread bestrew'd the ground.
 
 o RICHARD AN-D KATK. 
 
 The Arrival. Country Sports. 
 
 And soon the aged couple spy'd 
 Their lusty Sons and Daughters dear: 
 When RICHARD thus exulting cried, 
 ' Did'nt I tell you they'd be here?' 
 
 The cordial greetings of the soul 
 Were visible in every face; 
 Affection, void of all controul, 
 Govern'd with a resistless grace. 
 
 'Twas good to see the honest strife, 
 JVhich should contribute most to please; 
 And hear the long-recounted life, 
 Of infant tricks, and happy days. 
 
 But now, as at some nobler places, 
 Amongst the Leaders 'twas decreed 
 Time to begin the DICKY RACES; 
 More fam'd for laughter than for speed.
 
 RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 Recollections. 
 
 RICHARD look'd on with wond'rous glee, 
 And prais'd the Lad who chanc'd to win; 
 1 KATE, wan't I such a one as he? 
 1 As like him, ay, as pin to pin? 
 
 1 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 ! 
 
 ' 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'd 'nt jump.' 
 
 Thus spoke the ALE in RICHARD'S pate, 
 A very little made him mellow; 
 But still he lov'd his faithful KATE, 
 Who whisper'd thus, ' My good old fellow,
 
 RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 The Departure. 
 
 1 Remember what you promis'd me : 
 ' And see, the Sun is getting low; 
 * The Children want an hour ye see 
 1 To talk a bit before we go. ' 
 
 Like youthful Lover most complying 
 He turn'd, and chuckt her by the chin: 
 Then all across the green grass hieing, 
 Right merry faces, all akin, 
 
 Their farewell quart, beneath a tree 
 That droop'd its branches from above, 
 Awak'd the pure felicity 
 That waits upon PARENTAL LOVE. 
 
 KATE view'd her blooming Daughters round, 
 And Sons, who shook her wither'd hand : 
 Her features spoke what joy she found ; 
 But utterance had made a stand.
 
 RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 An old Man's Joy. 
 
 The Children toppled on the green, 
 And bowl'd their fairings down the hill; 
 Richard with pride beheld the scene, 
 Nor could he for his life sit still. 
 
 A Father's 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 
 
 ' Through all my days I've labour'd hard, 
 ' And could of pains and Crosses tell; 
 ' But this is Labour's great reward, 
 ' To meet ye thus, and see ye well. 
 
 ' My good old Partner, when at home, 
 ' Sometimes with wishes mingles tears; 
 1 Goody, says I, let what wool come, 
 * We've nothing for them but our pray'rs. 
 
 c
 
 10 RICHARD AND KATE. 
 
 Old Man's Joy continued. 
 
 i May you be all as old as I, 
 
 * And see your Sons to manhood grow; 
 ' And, many a time before you die, 
 
 ' Be just as pleas'd as I am now.' 
 
 Then, (raising still his Mug and Voice,) 
 ' An Old Man's weakness don't despise ! 
 1 I love you well, my Girls and Boys; 
 
 * GOD bless you all;' so said his eyes 
 
 For, as he spoke, a big round drop 
 Fell bounding on his ample sleeve; 
 A witness which he could not stop, 
 A witness which all hearts believe. 
 
 Thou, FILIAL PIETY, wert there; 
 And round the ring, benignly bright, 
 Dwelt in the luscious half-shed tear, 
 And in the parting word Good Night.
 
 RICHARD AND KATE. 11 
 
 The Return home. 
 
 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 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 chearful as the Day. 
 Not yet to Love but Mirth she paid her vows ; 
 And Echo mock'd her as she call'd her Cows. 
 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;
 
 WALTER AND JANE. 13 
 
 v. 9. Jane. 
 
 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 the 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, 
 That leads the heart to rapture or to woe, 
 Twas WALTER'S fate thy mad'ning power to know; 
 And scarce to know, ere in its infant twine, 
 As the Blast shakes the tendrils of the Vine,
 
 U WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 The Separation. v. 27. 
 
 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 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; 
 But could another scene so pleasing prove, 
 Twelve weary miles from Walter and from Love? 
 The Maid grew thoughtful : yet to Fate resign'd, 
 Knew not the worth of what she left behind. 
 
 He, when at Eve releas'd from toil and heat, 
 Soon miss'd the smiles that taught his heart to beat,
 
 WALTER AND JANE. ]5 
 
 v. 45. The Lover's Journey. 
 
 Each sabbath-clay 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, Aifection for his guide: 
 O'er the brown Heath his pathless journey lay, 
 Where screaming Lapwings hail'd the dp'ning day. 
 High rose the Sun, the anxious Lover sigh'd; 
 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; 
 Trifling impediments; his heart was light, 
 For Love and Beauty glow'd in fancy's sight; 
 And soon he gaz'd on Jane'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.'
 
 ]6 WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 Self-Demal. v. 63. 
 
 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; 
 
 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; the wan Moon 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. 
 
 A month'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 portray'd 
 His own sweet, injur'd, unoffending Maid.
 
 WALTER AND JANE. 17 
 
 v. 81. The renew' d Journey . 
 
 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 clinch'd hand fell heavy on his breast. 
 
 ' Why do I go in cruel sport to say, 
 " I love thee, Jane; appoint the happy day?" 
 < 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? 
 ' Why should my scanty pittance nip her prime, 
 ' And chace 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; 
 
 D
 
 18 WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 Love of Prudence. y. 99. 
 
 ' 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; 
 4 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 
 1 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 Horse ; 
 
 ' The poor beast limp'tl: I bore a Master's frown, 
 
 ' A thousand times I wish'd the wound my own. 
 
 1 When to these tangling thoughts I've been resign'd, 
 
 ' Fury or languor has possess'd my mind,
 
 WALTER AND JANE. 19 
 
 .' ' ..... 
 
 v. 117. Recollections. 
 
 ( All eyes have stared, I've blown a blast so strong; 
 ( 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 clear name will brins^ 
 
 O' 
 
 1 1 feel : but, guilty Love, 'tis not thy sting ! 
 
 4 Yet what are jeers? the bubbles of an hour; 
 
 ' Jane knows what Love can do, and feels its pow'r; 
 
 1 In her mild eye fair Truth her meaning tells; 
 
 ' 'Tis not in looks like her's 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; 
 ' Near, and still nearer, rolls each little tide, 
 
 1 Th' expanding mirror swells on either side: 
 
 ' They touch 'tis done receding bound'ries fly, 
 
 f An instantaneous union strikes the eye:
 
 20 WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 The Interview. v. 135. 
 
 ' So 'tis with us: for Jane 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 unprepared 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. 
 
 ' 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\ 
 
 4 Not like you, Walter, she was always kind.'
 
 WALTER AND JANE. 21 
 
 v. 153. Resejitment and Tenderness. 
 
 '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 Walter's sake ! ' 'Twas no such thine. 
 
 * o 
 
 But when astonishment his tongue releas'd, 
 Pride's usurpation in an instant ceas'd : 
 
 V. 
 
 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, 
 
 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 ;
 
 WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 Visit to a Friend. v. 171, 
 
 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; 
 c 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 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 
 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.
 
 WALTER AND JANE. 23 
 
 v. 189. The Expostulation. 
 
 1 What ails thee, Jane?' 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 Jasmine peeped in to see; 
 And the transparent Lilac at the door, 
 Full to the Sun its purple honors bore, 
 The clam'rous Hen her fearless brood display 'd, 
 And march'd around ; while thus the Matron said : 
 ' Jane has been weeping, Walter; prithee why? 
 ' I've seen her laugh, and dance, but never cry. 
 ' 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: 
 ' I say then, Boy, you have not us'd her well."
 
 <_>4 WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 Pleadings of Experience for Love with extreme Prudence. v -207. 
 
 JANE felt for WALTER; felt his cruel pain, 
 While Pity's voice brought forth her 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 f Why then, my Children, why 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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, 
 1 And talk, and laugh, and fool the time away: 
 ' And Care defied ; who not one pain could give, 
 ' Till the thought came of how we were to live; 
 c And then Love plied his arrows thicker still: 
 ' And prov'd victorious; as he always will.
 
 WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 v. 225. The Victory. 
 
 ' 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. 
 Her 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; 
 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:
 
 WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 The Confession. v. 243. 
 
 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 tr-uth 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; 
 1 To fly from Care then half resolv'd I stood, 
 
 * And without horror mus'd on fields of blood, 
 
 * But Hope prevail'd. Be then the sword resign'd; 
 1 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
 
 WALTER AND JANE. 27 
 
 .v. 261. Unexpected Visit, 
 
 Announc'd a guest, who bore with winning grace 
 His well-tim'd errand pictured in his face. 
 Around with silent reverence they stood; 
 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 steps and follow'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 worshipt there. 
 
 He found what oft the generous bosom seeks, 
 In the Dame's court'seys and JANE'S blushing cheeks, 
 That consciousness of Worth, that freeborn Grace, 
 Which waits on Virtue in the meanest place.
 
 28 WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 The Difficulty removed. v. 279. 
 
 ' Young Mon, I'll 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. 
 
 I Here, in this Purse, (what should have cheer'd a Wife,) 
 ' Lies, half the savings of your Uncle's life ! 
 
 I 1 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. 
 1 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; 
 Perils and Power while humble minds forego, 
 Who gives them half a Kingdom gives them woe; 
 Comforts may be procur'd and want defied, 
 Heav'ns ! with how small a Sum, when right applied !
 
 WALTER AND JANE. 29 
 
 ~~r 
 v. 297. How little of outward Good suffices for Happiness. 
 
 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 dawuings of his future bliss; 
 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; 
 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.
 
 30 WALTER AND JANE. 
 
 Joy above Wealth. v. 315. 
 
 ' 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 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; 
 1 But, first, to make my gratitude appear, 
 ' I'll shoe your Honour's Horses for a Year; 
 
 * If clouds should threaten when your Corn is down, 
 ' I'll lend a hand, and summon half the town; 
 
 1 If good betide, I'll 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; 
 
 ' Yet, Sir, though Fortune frown'cl when I was born, 
 
 1 Let's drink eternal friendship from this Horn. 
 
 ' How much our present joy to you we owe, 
 
 ' Soon our three Bells shall let the Neighbours know;
 
 WALTER AND JANE. 31 
 
 v. 333. Grateful frankness. 
 
 1 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; 
 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 promis'd fair to cheer them to the end; 
 With Love their guide, and Goody for their friend.
 
 A TALE. 
 
 NEAR the high road upon a winding stream 
 
 An honest Miller rose to Wealth and Fame: 
 
 The noblest Virtues cheer'd his lengthened days, 
 
 And all the Country echo'd with his praise: 
 
 His Wife, the Doctress of the neiglib'ring Poor,* 
 
 Drew constant pray'rs and blessings round his door. 
 
 * This village and the poor of this neighbourhood know what it is 
 to have possest such a blessing, and feel at this moment what it is to 
 lose it by death. C. L. 
 
 Troston, 13th of September, 1801.
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 v. 1. The Tempest. 
 
 One Summer's night, (the hour of rest was come) 
 Darkness unusual overspread their home; 
 A chilling blast was felt: the foremost cloud 
 Sprinkl'd the bubbling Pool; 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 resigned she sat, in anxious pain; 
 He fill'd his pipe, and listen'd to the rain 
 That batter'd furiously their strong abode, 
 Roar'd in the Damm, and lash'd the pebbled road : 
 When, mingling with the storm, confus'd and wild, 
 They heard, or thought they heard, a screaming Child 
 The voice approach 'd; and midst the thunder's roar, 
 Now loudly beg'g'cl for Mercy at the door. 
 
 MERCY was there: the Miller heard the call; 
 His door he open'd; when a sudden squall
 
 34 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 The Young Stranger. v. 25. 
 
 Drove in a wretched Girl; 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; 
 
 Dry cloaths 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, 
 
 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, 
 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; 
 When thus the generous Man again begun: 
 ' See, flutt'ring sighs that rise against her will, 
 ' And agitating dreams disturb her still !
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 35 
 
 v. 43. The simple Story. 
 
 < Dame, we should know before we go to rest, 
 
 ' Whence comes this Girl, and how she came distrest. 
 
 1 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 ? 
 1 Have you no home to keep you dry and warm? 
 ' Who gave you all those 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; and no friends beside: 
 ' I well remember when my Mother died: 
 ' My Brother cried; and so did I that day: 
 ' We had no Father; he was gone away; 
 ' That night we left our home new cloaths to wear: 
 ' The Work-house found them ; we were carried there. 
 1 We lov'd each other dearly ; when we met 
 ' We always shard what trifles we could get.
 
 36 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 Rustic Hospitality and Protection of the friendless. v. 61 
 
 ' 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'll come again; perhaps he's dead. 
 
 ' When I grew strong enough I went to place, 
 
 ' My Mistress had a sour ill-natured 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, 
 
 1 And always cried at night before I slept. 
 
 ' This Morning I offended; and I bore 
 
 ' A cruel beating, worse than all before. 
 
 ' Unknown to all the House I ran away; 
 
 ' And thus far travell'd through the sultry day; 
 
 ' And,. O 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;
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 37 
 
 v. 79. The Child becomes one of the Family. 
 
 He mutter'd, glorying- 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, 
 
 * My house has childless been this many a year; 
 
 ' While you deserve it you shall tarry here.' 
 
 The Orphan mark'd the ardor of his eye, 
 
 Blest his kind words, and thank'd him with a sigh. 
 
 Thus was the sacred compact doubly sealVl ; 
 Thus were her spirits rais'd, her bruises heal'd : 
 Thankful, and cheerful too, no more afraid, 
 Thus little PHOZBE was the Miller's Maid. 
 Grateful they found her; patient of controul: 
 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,
 
 33 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 The Neiv Coiner. v. 97. 
 
 The 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 Phoebe, whom he lov'd so dear, 
 
 ' I've 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.' 
 
 Now throbb'd her heart, a new sensation quite, 
 Whene'er the cornel v Stranger was in sight: 
 
 V *J 
 
 For he at once assiduously strove 
 To please so sweet a Maid, and win her love. 
 At every corner stopp'd her in her way ; 
 And saw fresh beauties opening ev'ry day. 
 He took delight in tracing in her face 
 The mantling blush, and every nameless grace,- 
 * A Maxim which all ought to remember. C. L.
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 39 
 
 v. 115. First Impressions. 
 
 That Sensibility would bring to view, 
 
 When Love he mention'd ; Love, and Honour true. 
 
 But Phabe 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 his words as artless as her own: 
 
 Most true she judg'd; yet, long the Youth forbore 
 
 Divulging where, and how, he liv'cl before; 
 
 And seem'd to strive his History to hide, 
 
 Till fair Esteem enlisted on his side. 
 
 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! 
 
 1 '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. 
 
 1 She'd trip along the passage like a Fairy,
 
 40 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 Enquiry. Ingenuous Explanation. v. 133. 
 
 ' 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 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 atyPhtebe's eyes; 
 
 ' But be explicit, Boy; and deal with honour: 
 
 i 
 
 ' I feel my happiness depend upon her. 
 1 When here you came you'd sorrow on your brow; 
 ' And I've forborne to question you till now. 
 1 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 kind ; 
 ' And while you look for proofs of real worth, 
 ' You'll not regard the meanness of my birth.
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 41 
 
 v. 151. The little History. 
 
 ~ 
 
 * When, pennyless and sad, you met with me, 
 
 1 I'd just escap'd the dangers of the Sea; 
 
 ' Resolv'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'd all my fortune, all my Friends, to find. 
 
 ' Keen disappointment wounded me that morn: 
 
 * For, trav'ling near the spot where I was born, 
 1 I at the well-known door where I was bred, 
 
 1 Inquir'd who still was living, who was dead: 
 ' 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; 
 
 c 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 went to service, and she ran away. 
 
 G
 
 42 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 The Recognition. v. 169. 
 
 ' And scandal added'- ' Hold !' the Miller cried, 
 
 And, in an instant, stood at Phoebe's side ; 
 
 For he observed, while list'ning to the tale, 
 
 Her spirits faulter'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. 
 
 Awhile insensible she still appear 'd; 
 
 But, ' O my Brother!' was distinctly heard: 
 
 The astonisht 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, 
 They match'd the incidents of jogging time;
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 v. 187. Mutual Recollections. 
 
 And prov'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 followed him both night and morn. 
 
 And in that very storm when Phcebe fled, 
 
 When the rain drench VI 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: 
 
 To his charm'd heart a living picture drew; 
 
 And gave to hospitality its due ! ^ 
 
 The list'ning Host observed the gentle Pair; 
 
 And ponder'd on the means that brought them there : 
 
 Convinc'd, while unimpeach'd their Virtue stood, 
 
 'Twas Heav'n's high Will that he should do them good. 
 
 But now the anxious Dame, impatient grown, 
 Demanded Avhat the Youth had heard, or known,
 
 44 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 The Investigation. v. 205. 
 
 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?' 
 
 1 No living proofs have I,' 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: 
 
 1 She said, to one who watch'd her parting breath, 
 
 " Don't separate the Children at my death; 
 
 " They're not both mine : but " Here the scene was clos'd ; 
 
 ' She died, and left us helpless and expos'd; 
 
 1 Nor Time hath thrown, nor Reason's opening power, 
 
 < One friendly ray on that benighted hour.' V^ 
 
 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 Phoebe now endur'd : for every sense
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 45 
 
 v. 223. The Perplexity. 
 
 Became absorb'd in this unwelcome theme; 
 
 Nay every meditation, every dream, 
 
 Th' inexplicable sentence held to view, 
 
 'They're not both mine,' was every morning new: 
 
 For, till this hour, the Maid had never prov'd 
 
 How far she was enthralled, 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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.
 
 46 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 Anxiety. The Enquiry suggested. v. 241. 
 
 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 pfopos'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 Ph&be might be spar'd, ) 
 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 PHOZBE count the hours, 
 Or think May long, or wish away its flowers; 
 With mutual sighs both fann'd the wings of Time; 
 As we climb Hills and gladden as we climb,
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 47 
 
 v. 250. Eager Expectation. 
 
 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'4 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 detained, 
 His bending Blackthorn on the threshold prest, 
 Survey 'd the \vqjid\vard clouds, and hop'd the best. 
 PHOSBE, 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 exclainrd, 'Come, Phcebe, come.' 
 Another hindrance yet he had to feel: 
 As from the door they tripp'd with nimble heel,
 
 48 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 The Old Soldier. v. 277. 
 
 A poor old Man, foot-fourider'd and alone, 
 
 Thus urgent spoke, in Trouble's genuine tone : 
 
 ' My pretty Maid, if happiness you seek, 
 
 ' May disappointment never fade your cheek ! 
 
 * Your's 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,) 
 
 To banish hunger from his shatter'd frame; 
 
 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; 
 
 Threw down his Wallet, and made bare his head ; 
 
 And straight began, though mix'd with doubts and fears, 
 
 Th' unprefac'd History of his latter years. 
 
 ' I cross'd th' Atlantic with our Regiment brave, 
 
 ' Where Sickness sweeps whole Regiments to the grave;
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 49 
 
 v. 295. The Surprize. 
 
 ' Yet I've escap'd; and bear my arms no more; 
 ' My age discharg'cl me when T 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 Avas come; 
 
 1 The Bounty tempted me; she had it all: 
 
 ' We parted; and I've seen my betters fall. 
 
 ' Yet, as I'm spar'd, though in this piteous case, 
 
 ' I'm trav'ling homeward to my native place; 
 
 1 Though should I reach that dear remember'd spot, 
 
 * 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 indulged : for he with doubts survey'd 
 By turns the Stranger, and the lovely Maid. 
 
 * Had you no Children?' ' Yes, young Man; I'd two: 
 
 * A Boy, if still he lives, as old as you : 
 
 H
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 The Discovery. v. 313. 
 
 ' Yet not ray own; but likely so to prove; 
 
 ' 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? 
 
 1 Go; and may blessings wait upon your cheer: 
 
 ' I too will travel on; perhaps to find 
 
 ' The only treasure that I left behind. 
 
 ' 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, ' There! 
 1 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: 
 4 Here, see your Child; nor wish a sweeter flow'r. 
 1 'Tis George that speaks; thou'lt bless the happy hour t
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 51 
 
 v. 331. The Hiss of disinterested Benevolence. 
 
 1 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' 
 O'er his rough cheeks the tears profusely spread: 
 Such as fools say become not Men to shed ; 
 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 Phabe'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.
 
 52 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 The adopted Daughter. v. 349. 
 
 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 their fears reliev'd: 
 ' Soldier,' he cried, ' you've found your Girl; 'tis true: 
 ' But suffer me to be a Father too ; 
 
 * 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: 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 My heart's warm wishes thus then I fulfill : 
 
 * My Dame and I can live without the Mill: 
 
 * George, take the whole; I'll near you still remain, 
 ' To guide your judgment in the choice of Grain:
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 53 
 
 v. 367. Perfect Content: hopes and prospects of Goodness. 
 
 ' In Virtue's path commence your prosperous life; 
 1 And from my hand receive your worthy Wife. 
 ' Rise, Phoebe; rise, my Girl! kneel not to me; 
 1 But to THAT POW'R who interposed for thee. 
 ' Integrity hath mark'd your favourite Youth ; 
 ' Fair budding Honour, Constancy, and Truth: 
 ' Go to his arms; and may unsullied joys 
 1 Bring smiling round me, rosy Girls and Boys! 
 ' I'll 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 ! ' 

 
 THE WIDOW 
 
 TO HER HOUR-GLASS. 
 
 COME, friend, I'll turn thee up again: 
 Companion of the lonely hour ! 
 Spring thirty times hath fed with rain 
 And cloath'd with leaves my humble bower, 
 
 Since thou hast stood 
 
 In frame of wood,
 
 THE WIDOW. 
 
 On Chest or Window by my side : 
 .At every Birth still thou wert near, 
 Still spoke thine admonitions clear. 
 And, when my Husband died, 
 
 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; 
 The sand above more hollow grew, 
 Like days and years still filt'ring through, 
 And mingling joy and pain. 
 
 While thus I spin and sometimes sing r 
 (For now and then my heart will glow) 
 Thou measur'st Time's expanding wing: 
 By thee the noontide hour I know:
 
 56 THE WIDOW. 
 
 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 get'st a Holiday. 
 
 \ 
 Steady as Truth, on either end v 
 
 Thy daily task performing well, 
 Thou'rt Meditation's constant friend, 
 And strik'st the Heart without a Bell : 
 
 Come, lovely May ! 
 
 Thy lengthen'd day 
 Shall gild once more thy native plain; 
 Curl inward here, sweet Woodbine flow'r; 
 * Companion of the lonely hour, 
 * I'll turn thee up again.'
 
 MARKET -NIGHT. 
 
 * O WINDS, howl not so long and loud; 
 
 1 Nor with your vengeance arm the snow: 
 < Bear hence each heavy-loaded cloud ; 
 
 * And let the twinkling Star-beams glow. 
 
 * 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.
 
 58 MARKET-NIGHT. 
 
 ' O guardian Spirits ! Ye that dwell 
 
 ' Where woods, and pits, and hollow ways, 
 
 * The lone night-trav'ler's fancy swell 
 ' With fearful tales, of older days, 
 
 4 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. 
 
 1 From darkness rushing o'er his way, 
 ' The Thorn's white load it bears on high ! 
 ' Where the short furze all shrouded lay, 
 ' Mounts the dried grass; Earth's bosom dry. 
 
 * Then o'er the Hill with furious sweep 
 ' It rends the elevated tree 
 
 ' Sure-footed beast, thy road thou'lt keep ; 
 ' Nor storm nor darkness startles thee !
 
 MARKET-NIGHT. 59 
 
 ' O blest assurance, (trusty steed,) 
 
 * To thee the buried road is known; 
 
 ' Home, all the spur thy footsteps need, 
 
 * When loose the frozen rein is thrown. 
 
 4 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. 
 
 * Sound is their rest: they little know 
 
 1 What pain, what cold, their Father feels; 
 ' But dream, perhaps, they see him now, 
 ' While each the promis'd Orange peels. 
 
 ' 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 !
 
 60 MARKET-NIGHT. 
 
 ' I'll look abroad ! 'tis piercing cold ! 
 
 * How the bleak wind assails his breast ! 
 
 ' Yet some faint light mine eyes behold: 
 ' The storm is verging o'er the West. 
 
 1 There shines a Star! O welcome sight ! 
 4 Through the thin vapours bright'ning still ! 
 1 Yet, 'twas beneath the fairest night 
 ' The murd'rer stain'd yon lonely Hill. 
 
 * Mercy, kind Heav'n ! such thoughts dispel ! 
 ' No voice, no footstep can I hear!' 
 (Where Night and Silence brooding dwell, 
 Spreads thy cold reign> heart-chilling Fear.) 
 
 * Distressing hour ! uncertain fate ! 
 
 4 O Mercy, Mercy, guide him home ! 
 fc Hark! then I heard the distant gate; 
 4 Repeat it, Echo; quickly^ come !
 
 MARKET-NIGHT. 61 
 
 ' 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, cloath'd in snow; 'tis he. 
 
 c Where have you stay'd ? put clown your load. 
 ' How have you borne the storm, the cold? 
 
 * What horrors did I not forebode 
 
 1 That Beast is worth his weight in gold.' 
 
 Thus spoke the joyful Wife; then ran- 
 And hid in grateful steams her head : 
 Dapple was hous'd, the hungry Man 
 With joy glanc'd o'er the Children's bed. 
 
 ' What, all asleep! so best;' he cried: 
 c O what a night I've travell'd through J 
 'Unseen, unheard, I might have died; 
 ' But Heaven has brought me safe to you.
 
 62 MARKET-NIGHT. 
 
 1 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.'
 
 THE 
 
 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. 
 
 Benighted was an ancient Dame, 
 And fearful haste she made 
 
 To gain the vale of Fakenham, 
 And hail its Willow shade. 
 
 * 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.
 
 64 THE FAKENHAM GHOST. 
 
 Her footsteps knew no idle stops, 
 
 But follow'd faster still ; 
 And echo'd to the darksome Copse 
 
 That whisper'd on the Hill; 
 
 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. 
 
 The dappled herd of grazing Deer 
 That sought the Shades by day, 
 
 Now started from her path with fear, 
 And gave the Stranger way. 
 
 Darker it grew; and darker fears 
 Came o'er her troubled mind ; 
 
 When now, a short quick step she hears 
 Come patting close behind.
 
 THE FAKENHAM GHOST. 65 
 
 She turn'd; it stopt; nought could she see 
 
 Upon the gloomy plain! 
 But, as she strove the Sprite to flee, 
 
 She heard the same again. 
 
 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. 
 
 Yet once again, amidst her fright 
 
 She tried what sight could do; 
 When through the cheating glooms of night, 
 
 A MONSTER stood in view. 
 
 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.
 
 66 T<HE FAKENHAM GHOST. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 Still on, pat, pat, the Goblin went, 
 
 As it had done before: 
 Her strength and resolution spent, 
 
 She fainted at the door. 
 
 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.
 
 THE FAKENHAM GHOST. 67 
 
 The Candle's gleam pierc'd through the night, 
 Some short space o'er the green; 
 
 And there the little trotting Sprite 
 Distinctly might he seen. 
 
 An Ass's Foal had lost its Dam 
 
 Within the spacious Park; 
 And simple as the playful Lamb 
 
 Had follow'd in the dark. 
 
 No Goblin he; no imp of sin: 
 
 No crimes had ever known. 
 They took the shaggy stranger in, 
 
 And rear'd him as their own. 
 
 His little hoofs would rattle round 
 
 Upon the Cottage floor : 
 The Matron learn'd to love the sound 
 
 That frighten'd her before.
 
 68 THE FAKENHAM GHOST. 
 
 A favorite the Ghost became; 
 
 And, 'twas his fate to thrive : 
 And long he liv'd and spread his fame, 
 
 And kept the joke alive. 
 
 For many a laugh went through the Vale ; 
 
 And some conviction too: 
 Each thought some other Goblin tale. 
 
 Perhaps, was just as true.
 
 THE FRENCH MARINER. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 AN Old French Mariner am I, 
 Whom Time hath render'd poor and gray ; 
 Hear, conquering Britons, ere I die, 
 What anguish prompts me thus to say. 
 
 I've rode o'er many a dreadful wave, 
 I've seen the reeking blood descend: 
 IVe heard the last groans of the brave; 
 The shipmate dear, the steady Friend.
 
 70 THE FRENCH MARINER. 
 
 '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. 
 
 There, as I brav'd the storms of Fate, 
 Dead in my arms my Brother fell; 
 Here sits forlorn his widow'd Mate, 
 Who weeps whene'er the tale I tell. 
 
 Thy reign, sweet Peace, was o'er too soon; 
 War, piecemeal, robs me of my joy: 
 For, on the bloodstain 'dyfrvtf of June 
 Death took my eldest favorite Boy. 
 
 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.
 
 THE FRENCH MARINER. 71 
 
 With BE u YES 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. 
 
 And must I mourn my Country's shame? 
 And envious curse the conquering Foe? 
 No more I feel that thirst of Fame ; 
 All I can feel is private woe. 
 
 E'en all the joy that Vict'ry brings, 
 (Her bellowing Guns, and flaming pride) 
 Cold, momentary comfort flings 
 Around where weeping Friends reside. 
 
 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.
 
 72 THE FRENCH MARINER. 
 
 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? 
 
 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. 
 
 Yet shall not poor enfeebled Age 
 Breathe forth revenge ; but rather say, 
 O God, who seest the Battle's rage, 
 Take from men's hearts that rage away. 
 
 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; 
 And clouds of dancing Gnats to sing 
 A summer-night's serenity. 
 
 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.
 
 74 DOLLY. 
 
 A simple Maid, who could employ 
 The silent lapse of Evening mild, 
 And lov'd its solitary joy: 
 For Dolly was Reflection's child. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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.
 
 DOLLY. 75 
 
 He at my Window whistling loud, 
 
 Arous'd my lightsome heart to go: 
 
 Day, conqu'ring climb'd from cloud to cloud; 
 
 The fields all wore a purple glow. 
 
 We stroll'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 ! 
 
 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 ! ' 
 
 From the rude Dock my skirt had swept 
 A fringe of clinging burrs so green ; 
 Like them our hearts still closer crept, 
 And hook'd a thousand holds unseen.
 
 76 DOLLY. 
 
 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. 
 
 The sweet-brier op'd its pink-ey'd rose, 
 And gav r e its fragrance to the gale; 
 Though modest flow'rs may sweets disclose, 
 More sweet was HENRY'S earnest tale. 
 
 He seem'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. 
 
 A bank rose high beside the way, 
 And full against the Morning Sun ; 
 Of heav'nly blue there Violets gay 
 His hand invited one by one.
 
 DOLLY. 77 
 
 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. 
 
 With his last kiss he would have vow'd; 
 But blessings crouding forc'd their way: 
 Then mounted he his Courser proud; 
 His time elaps'd, he could not stay. 
 
 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; 
 
 Then down the road his vigour tried, 
 His rider gazing, gazing still; 
 ' My dearest, I'll be true,' he cried: 
 And, if he lives, I'm sure he will.
 
 78 
 
 DOLLY. 
 
 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, 1800. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO MY CHILDREN. 
 
 GENIUS of the Forest Shades! 
 Lend thy pow'r, and lend thine ear! 
 A Stranger trod thy lonely glades, 
 Amidst thy dark and hounding 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.
 
 80 
 
 Thy Dells by wint'ry 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. 
 
 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, 
 (The Herd's rude tracks from rill to rill) 
 Roar'd echoing through the solemn scene.
 
 WHITTLEBURY FOREST. 81 
 
 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-brown Maid.' 
 
 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. 
 
 M
 
 ft 
 82 AVISITTO 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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. 
 
 Now, 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 Main: 
 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 your Father's Father breath'd ! 
 
 Perhaps they'll 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 Cliffs round my native shore, 
 And the loud Ocean's swelling tide.
 
 84 A VISIT TO 
 
 ' Genius of the Forest Shades,' 
 Sweet, from the heights of thy domain, 
 When the grey 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 i 
 
 Where was thy Elfin train that play 
 
 Round Wake's huge Oak, their favourite tree; 
 
 May a peor son of Song thus say, 
 
 Why were they not reveal'd to me ! 
 
 Yet, smiling Fairies left behind, 
 
 Affection brought you to my view; 
 
 To love and tenderness resign'd, 
 
 I sat me down and thought of you.
 
 WHITTLEBURY FOREST. 85 
 
 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. 
 
 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 still lengthen thy long glades, 
 And bring thy peace and silence here.
 
 SONG 
 
 FOB 
 
 A HIGHLAND DROVER 
 
 RETURNING FROM ENGLAND. 
 
 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 set light on my brow, 
 Gives my sinews their strength and my bosom its glow. 
 
 Farewell, Mountaineers! my companions, adieu; 
 Soon, many long miles when I'm sever'd from you, 
 I shall miss your white Horns on the brink of the Bourne, 
 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.
 
 HIGHLAND DROVER. 87 
 
 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; my heart bounds like the Hind; 
 For home is so sweet, and my Maggy so kind. 
 
 As day after day I still follow my course, 
 
 And in fancy trace back every Stream to its source, 
 
 Hope cheers me up hills, where the road lies before 
 
 O'er hills just as high, and o'er tracks of wild Moor; 
 
 The keen polar Star nightly rising to view; 
 
 But Maggy's my Star, just as steady and true. 
 
 O 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.
 
 88 HIGHLAND DROVER. 
 
 Love, why do you urge me, so weary and poor? 
 I cannot step faster, I cannot do more; 
 I've pass'd silver Tweed ; e'en the Tay flows behind : 
 Yet fatigue I'll disdain; my reward I shall find: 
 Thou, sweet smile of innocence, thou art my prize; 
 And the joy that will sparkle in Maggy's blue eyes. 
 
 She'll watch to the southward; perhaps she will sigh, 
 That the way is so long, and the Mountains 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 Maggy, to-morrow I'll come.
 
 A WORD 
 
 TO 
 
 TWO YOUNG LADIES, 
 
 WHEN tender Rose-trees first receive 
 On half-expanded Leaves, the Shower; 
 Hope's gayest pictures we believe, 
 And anxious watch each coming flower. 
 
 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, 
 
 With joy their op'ning tints we view, 
 While morning's precious moments fly: 
 My pretty Maids, 'tis thus with you; 
 The fond admiring gazer, /. 
 
 N
 
 50 TO TWO YOUNG LADIES. 
 
 Preserve, sweet Buds, where'er you be, 
 The richest gem that decks a Wife; 
 The charm of female modesty: 
 And let sweet Music give it life. 
 
 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. 
 
 Yet, ere that comes, while yet ye quaff 
 The cup of Health without a pain, 
 I'll shake my grey 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
 
 TO TWO YOUNG LADIES. 91 
 
 family, I here preserve verbatim an effort of a child nine years old. 
 I have the more pleasure in doing it, because / 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 laureat wreath of praise I'll bind} 
 " None that have read thy commendable mind 
 " Can let it pass unnotic'd nor can I 
 " For by thy lays I know thy sympathy." F, P.
 
 OF PART OF 
 
 INTO LATIN, 
 
 By the Rev. Mr. C 
 
 HEY, Giles! in what new garb art dresst? 
 For Lads like you methinks a bold one; 
 I'm glad to see thee so caresst; 
 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 own Fathers have not known 'em.
 
 NANCY. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 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. 
 
 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.
 
 94 NANCY. 
 
 Last Month, 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. 
 
 Remember 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. 
 
 As I pull'd down the clusters of Nuts for my Fair, 
 What a blow I 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. 
 
 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.
 
 NANCY. 95 
 
 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. 
 
 A SPKIXG o'erhung with many a flow'r, 
 The grey sand dancing in its bed, 
 Embank'd beneath a Hawthorn bower, 
 Sent forth its waters near my head: 
 A rosy Lass approach'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.
 
 ROSY HANNAH. 97 
 
 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 met her where beneath our feet 
 
 Through downy Moss the Wild -Thyme grew; 
 
 Nor Moss elastic, flow'rs though sweet, 
 
 Match'd Hannah's cheek of rosy hue. 
 
 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 cloudy 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 own.
 
 SONG. 
 
 AND HIS 
 
 DOG ROVER. 
 
 ROVER, awake! the grey 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. 
 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.
 
 THE SHEPHERD. 99 
 
 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 Staff; and o'er the dews 
 Let Echo waft thy gladsome voice. 
 Shall we a cheerful note refuse 
 When rising Morn proclaims ' Rejoice ! ' 
 
 Now then we'll start; 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. 
 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. 
 
 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 Ringwood's well-known voice 
 
 Bid tuneful Echo play. 
 
 We come, ye Groves, ye Hills, we come: 
 The vagrant Fox shall hear his doom, 
 
 And dread our jovial train. :*j 
 
 The shrill Horn sounds, the courser flies, 
 While every Sportsman joyful cries, 
 
 ' There's Ringwood's voice again.'
 
 HUNTING SONG. 101 
 
 Ye Meadows, hail the coming throng; 
 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. 
 
 The chiming notes of chearful 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: 
 
 i 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 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; 
 Yet, so lightly on its way, 
 Seems to whisper ' Holiday.' 
 
 The pathway flowers that bending meet 
 And give the Meads their yellow hue,
 
 LUCY. 103 
 
 The May-bush and the Meadow-sweet 
 Reserve their fragrance all for you. 
 
 Why then, Lucy, why delay? 
 
 Let us share the Holiday. 
 
 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. 
 
 A promise too my Lucy made, 
 (And shall my heart its claim resign?) 
 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. 
 
 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? 
 
 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'll make him at home to a pin. 
 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.
 
 TER SONG. 105 
 
 O 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, 
 
 I'm happier than many a king 
 
 While the Bellows blow Bass to the sound. 
 
 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: 
 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 Mine that will never grow poor.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Richard and Kate : Ballad I 
 
 i 
 
 Walter and Jane: a Tale 12 
 
 The Miller's Maid: a Tale 32 
 
 The Widow to her Hour-Glass 54 
 
 Market-Night : Ballad 57 
 
 The Fakenham Ghost: Ballad 63 
 
 The French Mariner: Ballad 69 
 
 Dolly: Ballad 73 
 
 A Visit to Whittlebury Forest 79 
 
 A Highland Drover : Song 86 
 
 A Word to Two Young Ladies 89 
 
 On hearing of the Translation of the Farmer's Boy . . 92 
 
 Nancy : Song 93 
 
 Rosy Hannah : Song 96 
 
 The Shepherd and his Dog Rover: Song 98 
 
 Hunting Song , 100 
 
 Lucy: Song 102 
 
 Winter Song , 104
 
 T. BENSiEY, PRINTER, 
 BOLT-COURT, FLEET-STREET, LONDON.
 
 iiiiii 
 
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