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Six gentlemen upon the road,
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
They raised the hue and cry,-
Not one of them was mute;
Did join in the pursuit.
Flew open in short space;
That Gilpin rode a race.
For he got first to town;
He did again get down.
And Gilpin, long live he;
May I be there to see!
These flowing from the fount of grace above,
Those breathed from lips of everlasting love.
An envious world will interpose its frown,
Transformed to blessings, miss their cruel aim;
Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast
Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain
AFFLICTED PROTESTANT LADY IN FRANCE.
REV. W. CAWTHORNE UNWIN.
The kindness of a friend,
As ever friendship penned,
The path of sorrow and that path alone,
A union formed, as mine with thee,
Not rashly, nor in sport,
And faithful in its sort,
The bud of peach or rose,
The stock whereon it grows, With flower as sweet, or fruit as fair As if produced by nature there. Not rich, I render what I may,
I seize thy name in haste, And place it in this first essay,
Lest this should prove the last. 'Tis where it should be in a plan, That holds in view the good of man. The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,
Should be the poet's heart;
Than ever blazed by art.
TO THE REVEREND MR. NEWTON.
An Invitation into the Country.
The longer I heard, I esteemed
The work of my fancy the more, And e'en to myself never seemed
So tuneful a poet before. Though the pleasures of London exceed
In number the days of the year, Catharina, did nothing impede,
Would feel herself happier here; For the close-woven arches of limes
On the banks of our river, I know, Are sweeter to her many times
Than aught that the city can show.
The swallows in their torpid state
Compose their useless wing, And bees in hives as idly wait
The call of early Spring.
The wildest wind that blows,
Secure of their repose.
The gloomy scene surveys;
And pant for brighter days.
Bids me and Mary mourn:
And whispers your return.
Shall chase him from the bowers, And weave fresh garlands every day,
To crown the smiling hours.
Of happier times, appear,
Shall shine and dry the tear.
So it is, when the mind is endued
With a well-judging taste from above; Then, whether embellished or rude,
'Tis nature alone that we love. The achievements of art may amuse,
May even our wonder excite,
A lasting, a sacred delight.
Since then in the rural recess
Catharina alone can rejoice, May it still be her lot to possess
The scene of her sensible choice! To inhabit a mansion remote
From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note
To measure the life that she leads.
With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,
To wing all her moments at home;
As oft as it suits her to roam;
With little to hope or to fear,
Might we view her enjoying it here.
THE MORALIZER CORRECTED.
TO MISS STAPLETON, (NOW MRS. COURTNAY.) Sus came—she is gone—we have met
And meet perhaps never again; The sun of that moment is set,
And seems to have risen in vain. Catharina has fled like a dream
(So vanishes pleasure, alas !) But has left a regret and esteem,
That will not so suddenly pass. The last evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I, Our progress was often delayed
By the nightingale warbling nigh. We paused under many a tree,
And much she was charmed with a tone Less sweet to Maria and me,
Who so lately had witnessed her own. My numbers that day she had sung,
And gave them a grace so divine, As only her musical tongue
Could infuse into numbers of mine.
A HERMIT, (or if 'chance you hold .
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
And therefore never missed.
But nature works in every breast,
And Dick felt some desires,
A pass between his wires.
But Tom was still confined;
Te leave his friend behind.
Shades slanting at the close of day
Your hermit, young and jovial sirs!
True, answered an angelic guide,
So settling on his cage, by play,
You must not live alone-
Returned him to his own.
() ye, who never taste the joys Of Friendship, satisfied with noise,
Fandango, ball, and rout! Blush, when I tell you how a bird, A prison with a friend preferred
To liberty without.
THE NEEDLESS ALARM.
Tuere is a field through which I often pass, Thick overspread with moss and silky grass, Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood, Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brovd, Reserved to solace many a neighbouring squire, That he may follow them through brake and brier, Contusion hazarding of neck or spine, Which rural gentlemen call sport divine. A narrow brook, by rushy banks concealed, Runs in a bottom, and divides the field; Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head, But now wear crests of oven-wood instead; And where the land slopes to its watery bourn, Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn; Bricks line the sides, but shivered long ago And horrid brambles intertwinc below; A hollow scooped, I judge, in ancient time, For baking carth, or burning rock to limc.
Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed; Nor autumn yet had brushed from every spray With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away; But corn was housed, and beans were in the stack, Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack,
THE FAITHFUL BIRD.
The greenhouse is my summer seat; My shrubs displaced from that retreat
Enjoyed the open air; Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song Haid been their mutual solace long,
Lived happy prisoners there. They sang, as blithe as finches sing, That flutter loose on golden wing,
And frolic where they list;
With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and That sage they seemed, as lawyers o'er a doubt, throats,
Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out; With a whole gamut filled of heavenly notes, Or academic tutors, teaching youths, For which, alas! my destiny severe,
Sure ne'er to want them, mathematic truths; Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear. When thus a mutton, statelier than the rest, The sun, accomplishing his early march,
A ram, the ewes and wethers sad addressed His lamp now planted on Heaven's topmast arch,
Friends! we have lived too long. I never heard When, exercise and air my only aim,
Sounds such as these, so worthy to be feared. And heedless whither, to that field I came,
Could I believe, that winds for ages pent
In earth's dark womb have found at last a vent. Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found, And from their prison-house below arise, Or with the high-raised horn's melodious clang
With all these hideous howlings to the skies, All Killwick* and all Dinglederry* rang.
I could be much composed, nor should appear,
For such a cause, to feel the slightest fear. Sheep grazed the field: some with soft bosom Yourselves have seen, what time thethunders rolled, pressed
All night, me resting quiet in the fold. The herb as soft, while nibbling strayed the rest; Or heard we that tremendous bray alone, Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook,
I could expound the melancholy tone; Struggling, detained in many a petty nook. Should deem it by our old companion made, All seemed so peaceful, that, from them conveyed, The ass; for he, we know, has lately strayed, To me their peace by kind contagion spread.
And being lost, perhaps, and wandering wide But when the huntsman with distended cheek,
Might be supposed to clamour for a guide. 'Gan make his instrument of music speak,
But ah! those dreaded yells what soul can hear And from within the wood that crash was heard, That owns a carcase, and not quake for fear? Though not a hound from whom it burst appeared, Demons produce them doubtless; brazen-clawed The sheep recumbent, and the sheep that grazed; And fanged with brass the demons are abroad; All huddling into phalanx, stood and gazed,
I hold it therefore wisest and most fit, Admiring, terrified, the novel strain,
That, life to save, we leap into the pit. Then coursed the field around, and coursed it
Him answered then his loving mate and true round again ;
But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe But, recollecting, with a sudden thought,
How ! leap into the pit our life to save ? That flight in circles urged advanced them nought, To save our life leap all into the grave ? They gathered close round the old pit's brink,
For can we find it less ? Contemplate first And thought again—but knew not what to think. The depth, how awful! falling there, we burst;
The man to solitude accustomed long, Or should the brambles, interposed, our fall Perceives in every thing that lives a tongue; In part abate, that happiness were small; Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees For with a race like theirs no chance I see Have speech for him, and understood with ease; Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we. After long drought, when rains abundant fall, Mean-time, noise kills not. Be it Dapple’s bray, He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all; Or be it not, or be it whose it may, Knows what the freshness of their hue implies, And rush those other sounds, that seem by tongues How glad they catch the largess of the skies; Of demons uttered, from whatever lungs, But, with precision nicer still, the mind
Sounds are but sounds; and, till the cause appear, He scans of every locomotive kind;
We have at least commodious standing here. Birds of all feather, beasts of every name, Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame; From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last. The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears While thus she spake, I fainter heard the peals, Have all articulation in his ears;
For Reynard, close attended at his heels He spells them true by intuition's light,
By panting dog, tired man, and spattered horse, And needs no glossary to set him right.
Through mere good fortune took a different course. This truth premised was needful as a text,
The flock grew calm again; and I, the road To win due credence to what follows next.
Following, that led me to my own abode, Awhile they mused; surveying every face,
Much wondered that the silly sheep had found
Such cause of terror in an empty sound,
So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound. Stamped on each countenance such marks of inind,
Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day, • Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq.
Live till to-morrow, will have passed away.
When the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods; Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage, and full of grief. Princess ! if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties
All the terrors of our tongues. Rome shall perish—write that word
In the blood that she has spilt ; Perish, hopeless and abhorred,
Deep in ruin as in guilt. Rome, for empire far renowned,
Tramples on a thousand states, Soon her pride shall kiss the ground
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates! Other Romans shall arise,
Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
Harmony the path to faine. Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land, Armed with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command. Regions Cæsar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway;
None invincible as they.
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Of his sweet but awful lyre. She with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow: Rushed to battle, fought and died;
Dying hurled them at the foe. Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestowed,
Shaine and ruin wait for you.
When, conscious of no danger from below, She towered a cloud-capt pyramid of snow. No thunders shook with deep intestine sound The blooming groves, that girdled her around. Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines (Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines) The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assured, In peace upon her sloping sides matured. When on a day, like that of the last doom, A conflagration labouring in her womb, She teemed and heaved with an infernal birth, That shook the circling seas and solid earth. Dark and voluminous the vapours rise, And hang their horrors in the neighbouring skies, While through the Stygian veil, that blots the day, In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play.
But oh! what muse, and in what powers of song, Can trace the torrent as it burns along;. Havoc and devastation in the van, It marches o'er the prostrate works of man; Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear, And all the charms of a Sicilian year.
Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass, See it an uninformed and idle mass;
Without a soil t' invite the tiller's care,
O charming Paradise of short-lived sweets!
Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws,
Through the ripe harvest lies their destined road; At every step beneath their feet they tread The life of inultitudes, a nation's bread ! Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress Before them, and behind a wilderness. (Famine, and Pestilence, her first-born son, | Attend to finish what the sword begun;
HEROISM. There was a time when Ætna's silent fire Slept unperceived, the mountain yet entire;