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same time, with an oath, that he was as like Parson fear," he said, "of his losing them, and he must Adams as twelve to a dozen. The poet now shew them to his son John.". Another poetical married a young lady of Suffolk, the object of friend, Thomas Campbell, who met him at this an early attachment, and taking the curacy of time in London, remarks of him: His mildness Stathern, adjoining Belvoir Castle, he bade adieu in literary argument struck me with surprise in so to the ducal mansion, and transferred himself to stern a poet of nature, and I could not but contrast the humble parsonage in the village. Four happy the unassumingness of his manners with the originyears were spent in this retirement, when the poet ality of his powers. In what may be called the obtained the exchange of his two small livings in ready-money small-talk of conversation, his facility Dorsetshire for two of superior value in the vale might not perhaps seem equal to the known of Belvoir. Crabbe remained silent as a poet for calibre of his talents; but in the progress of conmany years. 'Out of doors,' says his son, he had versation, I recollect remarking that there was a always some object in view-a flower, or a pebble, vigilant shrewdness that almost eluded you, by or his note-book in his hand; and in the house, keeping its watch so quietly.' This fine remark is if he was not writing, he was reading. He read characteristic of Crabbe's genius, as well as of his aloud very often, even when walking, or seated by manners. It gathered its materials slowly and the side of his wife in the huge old-fashioned one- silently with intent but unobtrusive observation. horse chaise, heavier than a modern chariot, in The Tales of the Hall were received with that which they usually were conveyed in their little pleasure and approbation due to an old and excursions, and the conduct of which he, from established favourite, but with less enthusiasm awkwardness and absence of mind, prudently re-than some of his previous works. In 1822, the now linquished to my mother on all occasions.' In venerable poet paid a visit to Sir Walter Scott in 1807 he published his Parish Register, which had Edinburgh; and it is worthy of remark, that, as been previously submitted to Mr Fox, and parts to the city itself, he soon got wearied of the New of this poem-especially the story of Phoebe Town, but could amuse himself for ever in the Dawson-were the last compositions of their kind Old. His latter years were spent in the discharge that 'engaged and amused the capacious, the of his clerical duties, and in the enjoyment of candid, the benevolent mind of this great man.' social intercourse. His attachment to botany and The success of this work was not only decided, geology seemed to increase with age; and at but nearly unprecedented. In 1810 he came for- three-score and ten, he was busy, cheerful, and ward with The Borough, a poem of the same class, affectionate. His death took place at Trowbridge and more connected and complete; and two years on the 3d of February 1832, and his parishioners afterwards he produced his Tales in Verse, con- erected a monument to his memory in the church taining perhaps the finest of all his humble but of that place, where he had officiated for nineteen happy delineations of life and character. The years. A complete collection of his works, with public voice,' says his biographer, 'was again highly some new pieces and an admirable memoir, was favourable, and some of these relations were published in 1834 by his son, the Rev. G. Crabbe. spoken of with the utmost warmth of commenda- The Village, Parish Register, and shorter tales tion, as, The Parting Hour, The Patron, Edward of Crabbe, are his most popular productions. The Shore, and The Confidant.' In 1814, the Duke | Tales of the Hall are less interesting. They of Rutland appointed him to the living of Trow-relate principally to the higher classes of society, bridge, in Wiltshire, and he went thither to reside. and the poet was not so happy in describing their His income amounted to about £800 per annum, a peculiarities as when supporting his character of large portion of which he spent in charity. He the poet of the poor. Some of the episodes, howstill continued his attachment to literature, and in ever, are in his best style-Sir Owen Dale, Ruth, 1817 and 1818 was engaged on his last great work, Ellen, and other stories, are all marked with the The Tales of the Hall. He fancied that autumn peculiar genius of Crabbe. The redeeming and was, on the whole, the most favourable season for distinguishing feature of that genius was its him in the composition of poetry; but there was fidelity to nature, even when it was dull and something in the effect of a sudden fall of snow unprepossessing. His power of observation_and that appeared to stimulate him in a very extra- description might be limited, but his pictures have ordinary manner.' In 1819, the Tales were pub- all the force of dramatic representation, and may lished by Mr Murray, who, for them and the re- be compared to those actual and existing models maining copyright of all Crabbe's previous poems, which the sculptor or painter works from, instead gave the munificent sum of £3000. In an account of vague and general conceptions. They are of the negotiation for the sale of these copyrights, often too true, and human nature being exhibited written by Moore for the life of his brother-poet, in its naked reality, with all its defects, and we have the following amusing illustration of not through the bright and alluring medium of Crabbe's simplicity of manner: 'When he received romance or imagination, our vanity is shocked the bills for £3000, we-Moore and Rogers- and our pride mortified. The personal circumearnestly advised that he should, without delay, stances and experience of the poet affected the deposit them in some safe hands; but no-he bent of his genius. He knew how untrue and must "take them with him to Trowbridge, and absurd were the pictures of rural life which figured shew them to his son John. They would hardly in poetry. His own youth was dark and painfulbelieve in his good-luck at home if they did not spent in low society, amidst want and misery, see the bills." On his way down to Trowbridge, irascible gloom and passion. Latterly, he had a friend at Salisbury, at whose house he rested- more of the comforts and elegancies of social life Mr Everett, the banker-seeing that he carried at his command than Cowper, his rival as a these bills loosely in his waistcoat pocket, re- domestic painter. He not only could have quested to be allowed to take charge of them for 'wheeled his sofa round,' 'let fall the curtains, him; but with equal ill success. "There was no and, with the bubbling and loud hissing urn' on

the table, 'welcome peaceful evening in,' but the amenities of refined and intellectual society were constantly present with him, or åt his call. Yet he did not, like Cowper, attempt to describe them, or to paint their manifold charms. When he took up his pen, his mind turned to Aldborough and its wild amphibious race-to the parish workhouse, where the wheel hummed doleful through the day-to erring damsels and luckless swains, the prey of overseers or justices-or to the haunts of desperate poachers and smugglers, gipsies and gamblers, where vice and misery stalked undisguised in their darkest forms.

He stirred up the dregs of human society, and exhibited their blackness and deformity, yet worked them into poetry. Like his own Sir Richard Monday, he never forgot the parish. It is true that village-life in England in its worst form, with the old poor and game laws and nonresident clergy, was composed of various materials, some bright and some gloomy, and Crabbe drew them all. His Isaac Ashford is as honourable to the lowly English poor as the Jeanie Deans or Dandie Dinmont of Scott are to the Scottish character. His story of the real mourner, the faithful maid who watched over her dying sailor, is a beautiful tribute to the force and purity of humble affection. In The Parting Hour and The Patron are also passages equally honourable to the poor and middle classes, and full of pathetic and graceful composition. It must be confessed, however, that Crabbe was in general a gloomy painter of life-that he was fond of depicting the unlovely and unamiable—and that, either for poetic effect or from painful experience, he makes the bad of life predominate over the good. His pathos and tenderness are generally linked to something coarse, startling, or humiliating to disappointed hopes or unavailing sorrow—

Still we tread the same coarse way,
The present 's still a cloudy day.

The minuteness with which he dwells on such subjects sometimes makes his descriptions tedious, and apparently unfeeling. He drags forward every defect, every vice and failing, not for the purpose of educing something good out of the evil, but, as it would seem, merely for the purpose of completing the picture. In his higher flights, where scenes of strong passion, vice, or remorse are depicted, Crabbe is a moral poet, purifying the heart, as the object of tragedy has been defined, by terror and pity, and by fearful delineations of the misery and desolation caused by unbridled passion. His story of Sir Eustace Grey is a domestic tragedy of this kind, related with almost terrific power, and with lyrical energy of versification. His general style of versification is the couplet of Pope-he has been wittily called 'Pope in worsted stockings '-but less flowing and melodious, and often ending in points and quibbles. Thus, in describing his cottage furniture, he says

No wheels are here for either wool or flax,
But packs of cards made up of sundry packs.

His thrifty housewife, Widow Goe, falls down in sickness

Heaven in her eye, and in her hand her keys.

This jingling style heightens the effect of his

humorous and homely descriptions; but it is too much of a manner, and mars the finer passages. Crabbe has high merit as a painter of English scenery. He is here as original and forcible as in delineating character. His marine landscapes are peculiarly fresh and striking; and he invests even the sterile fens and barren sands with interest. His objects are seldom picturesque ; but he noted every weed and plant-the purple bloom of the heath, the dwarfish flowers among the wild gorse, the slender grass of the sheepwalk, and even the pebbles, sea-weed, and shells amid

The glittering waters on the shingles rolled. He was a great lover of the sea, and once, as his son relates, after being some time absent from it, mounted his horse and rode alone sixty miles from his house, that he might inhale its freshness and gaze upon its waters.

The Parish Workhouse and Apothecary.
From The Village.

Theirs is yon house that holds the parish poor,
Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door;
There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play,
And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day;
There children dwell who know no parents' care;
Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there;
Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed,
Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed;
Dejected widows with unheeded tears,
And crippled age with more than childhood-fears;
The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they!
The moping idiot and the madman gay.

Here too the sick their final doom receive, Here brought amid the scenes of grief, to grieve, Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, Mixed with the clamours of the crowd below; Here sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan, And the cold charities of man to man : Whose laws indeed for ruined age provide, And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, And pride embitters what it can't deny. Say ye, oppressed by some fantastic woes, Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose; Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance With timid eye, to read the distant glance; Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease, To name the nameless ever-new disease; Who with mock patience dire complaints endure, Which real pain and that alone can cure; How would ye bear in real pain to lie, Despised, neglected, left alone to die? How would ye bear to draw your latest breath Where all that's wretched paves the way for death? Such is that room which one rude beam divides, And naked rafters form the sloping sides; Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, And lath and mud are all that lie between ; Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patched, gives way To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day: Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread, The drooping wretch reclines his languid head; For him no hand the cordial cup applies, Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes; No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile, Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile.

But soon a loud and hasty summons calls, Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls; Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat,

All pride and business, bustle and conceit,

With looks unaltered by these scenes of woe,
With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go;
He bids the gazing throng around him fly,
And carries fate and physic in his eye;
A potent quack, long versed in human ills,
Who first insults the victim whom he kills;
Whose murderous hand a drowsy bench protect,
And whose most tender mercy is neglect.

Paid by the parish for attendance here,
He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer;
In haste he seeks the bed where misery lies,
Impatience marked in his averted eyes;
And, some habitual queries hurried o'er,
Without reply, he rushes on the door;
His drooping patient, long inured to pain,
And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain;
He ceases now the feeble help to crave
Of man; and silent sinks into the grave.

Isaac Ashford, a Noble Peasant.

From the Parish Register.

Next to these ladies, but in nought allied,
A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died.
Noble he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestioned and his soul serene:
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid;
At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed:
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face;
Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,
Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved;
To bliss domestic he his heart resigned,
And with the firmest, had the fondest mind :
Were others joyful, he looked smiling on,
And gave allowance where he needed none;
Good he refused with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh;
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distressed-
Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind
To miss one favour which their neighbours find—
Yet far was he from stoic pride removed;
He felt humanely, and he warmly loved :
I marked his action when his infant died,
And his old neighbour for offence was tried;
The still tears, stealing down that furrowed cheek,
Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak.
If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride,
Who, in their base contempt, the great deride;
Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed,
If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed;
Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew
None his superior, and his equals few :
But if that spirit in his soul had place,
It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;
A pride in honest fame, by virtue gained,

In sturdy boys to virtuous labours trained;
Pride in the power that guards his country's coast,
And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied,
In fact, a noble passion, misnamed pride.

He had no party's rage, no sect'ry's whim;
Christian and countryman was all with him;
True to his church he came; no Sunday-shower
Kept him at home in that important hour;
Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect
By the strong glare of their new light direct;
Ón hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze,
But should be blind and lose it in your blaze.'
In times severe, when many a sturdy swain
Felt it his pride, his comfort to complain,
Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would hide,
And feel in that his comfort and his pride.

At length he found, when seventy years were run, His strength departed and his labour done; 56

When, save his honest fame, he kept no more;
But lost his wife and saw his children poor;
'Twas then a spark of-say not discontent-
Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent:
'Kind are your laws-'tis not to be denied-
That in yon house for ruined age provide,
And they are just; when young, we give you all,
And then for comforts in our weakness call.
Why then this proud reluctance to be fed,
To join your poor and eat the parish bread?
But yet
linger, loath with him to feed
Who gains his plenty by the sons of need:
He who, by contract, all your paupers took,
And gauges stomachs with an anxious look:
On some old master I could well depend;
See him with joy, and thank him as a friend;
But ill on him who doles the day's supply,
And counts our chances who at night may die :
Yet help me, Heaven! and let me not complain
Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain.'

Such were his thoughts, and so resigned he grew;
Daily he placed the workhouse in his view!
But came not there, for sudden was his fate,
He dropt expiring at his cottage-gate.

I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there; I see no more those white locks thinly spread Round the bald polish of that honoured head; No more that awful glance on playful wight Compelled to kneel and tremble at the sight To fold his fingers all in dread the while, Till Mister Ashford softened to a smile; No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, Nor the pure faith-to give it force-are there. But he is blest, and I lament no more,

A wise good man contented to be poor.

Phabe Dawson.-From the Parish Register.'

Two summers since, I saw at Lammas fair,
The sweetest flower that ever blossomed there;
When Phoebe Dawson gaily crossed the green,
In haste to see, and happy to be seen;
Her air, her manners, all who saw, admired,
Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired;
The joy of youth and health her eyes displayed,
And ease of heart her every look conveyed;
A native skill her simple robes expressed,
As with untutored elegance she dressed;
The lads around admired so fair a sight,
And Phoebe felt, and felt she gave, delight.
Admirers soon of every age she gained,
Her beauty won them and her worth retained;
Envy itself could no contempt display,

They wished her well, whom yet they wished away.
Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place
Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace;

But yet on Sunday-eve, in freedom's hour,
With secret joy she felt that beauty's power;
When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal,
That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel.

At length, the youth ordained to move her breast,
Before the swains with bolder spirit pressed;
With looks less timid made his passion known,
And pleased by manners, most unlike her own;
Loud though in love, and confident though young ;
Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue;
By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade,
He served the squire, and brushed the coat he made;
Yet now, would Phoebe her consent afford,
Her slave alone, again he 'd mount the board;
With her should years of growing love be spent,
And growing wealth: she sighed and looked consent.
Now, through the lane, up hill, and
cross the

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Dejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid-
Led by the lover, walked the silent maid :
Slow through the meadows roved they many a mile,
Toyed by each bank and trifled at each stile;
Where, as he painted every blissful view,
And highly coloured what he strongly drew,
The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears,
Dimmed the false prospect with prophetic tears:
Thus passed the allotted hours, till, lingering late,
The lover loitered at the master's gate;

There he pronounced adieu! and yet would stay,
Till chidden-soothed-entreated-forced away!
He would of coldness, though indulged, complain,
And oft retire and oft return again;
When, if his teasing vexed her gentle mind,
The grief assumed compelled her to be kind!
For he would proof of plighted kindness crave,
That she resented first, and then forgave,
And to his grief and penance yielded more
Than his presumption had required before:

Ah! fly temptation, youth; refrain ! refrain!
Each yielding maid and each presuming swain!
Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black,
And torn green gown loose hanging at her back,
One who an infant in her arms sustains,
And seems in patience striving with her pains;
Pinched are her looks, as one who pines for bread,
Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are fled;
Pale her parched lips, her heavy eyes sunk low,
And tears unnoticed from their channels flow;
Serene her manner, till some sudden pain
Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again...
But who this child of weakness, want, and care?
'Tis Phoebe Dawson, pride of Lammas fair;
Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes,
Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies:
Compassion first assailed her gentle heart
For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart :
"And then his prayers! they would a savage move,
And win the coldest of the sex to love :'
But ah! too soon his looks success declared,
Too late her loss the marriage-rite repaired;
The faithless flatterer then his vows forgot,
A captious tyrant or a noisy sot:

If present, railing till he saw her pained;
If absent, spending what their labours gained;
Till that fair form in want and sickness pined,
And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind.

Then fly temptation, youth; resist! refrain!
Nor let me preach for ever and in vain!

Dream of the Condemned Felon.-From The Borough!
Yes! e'en in sleep the impressions all remain,
He hears the sentence and he feels the chain;
He sees the judge and jury when he shakes,
And loudly cries, 'Not guilty,' and awakes:
Then chilling tremblings o'er his body creep,
Till worn-out nature is compelled to sleep.

Now comes the dream again: it shews each scene, With each small circumstance that comes betweenThe call to suffering, and the very deed

There crowds go with him, follow, and precede;
Some heartless shout, some pity, all condemn,
While he in fancied envy looks at them;
He seems the place for that sad act to see,
And dreams the very thirst which then will be ;
A priest attends-it seems the one he knew
In his best days, beneath whose care he grew.
At this his terrors take a sudden flight;
He sees his native village with delight;
The house, the chamber, where he once arrayed
His youthful person, where he knelt and prayed;
Then, too, the comforts he enjoyed at home,
The days of joy, the joys themselves, are come;
The hours of innocence, the timid look

Of his loved maid, when first her hand he took

And told his hope; her trembling joy appears,
Her forced reserve, and his retreating fears.
All now are present-'tis a moment's gleam
Of former sunshine-stay, delightful dream!
Let him within his pleasant garden walk,
Give him her arm, of blessings let them talk.
Yes! all are with him now, and all the while
Life's early prospects and his Fanny's smile;
Then come his sister and his village friend,
And he will now the sweetest moments spend
Life has to yield: no, never will he find
Again on earth such pleasure in his mind :
He goes through shrubby walks these friends among,
Love in their looks and honour on the tongue;
Nay, there's a charm beyond what nature shews,
The bloom is softer, and more sweetly glows;
Pierced by no crime, and urged by no desire
For more than true and honest hearts require,
They feel the calm delight, and thus proceed
Through the green lane, then linger in the mead,
Stray o'er the heath in all its purple bloom,
And pluck the blossom where the wild-bees hum;
Then through the broomy bound with ease they pass,
And press the sandy sheep-walk's slender grass,
Where dwarfish flowers among the gorse are spread,
And the lamb browses by the linnet's bed;
Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their way
O'er its rough bridge, and there behold the bay;
The ocean smiling to the fervid sun,

The waves that faintly fall, and slowly run,
The ships at distance, and the boats at hand;
And now they walk upon the sea-side sand,
Counting the number, and what kind they be,
Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea;
Now arm in arm, now parted, they behold
The glittering waters on the shingles rolled :
The timid girls, half dreading their design,
Dip the small foot in the retarded brine,

And search for crimson weeds, which spreading flow,

Or lię like pictures on the sand below;
With all those bright red pebbles that the sun
Through the small waves so softly shines upon;
And those live lucid jellies which the eye
Delights to trace as they swim glittering by;
Pearl shells and rubied star-fish they admire,
And will arrange above the parlour fire.
Tokens of bliss! 'Oh, horrible! a wave
Roars as it rises-save me, Edward, save!'
She cries. Alas! the watchman on his way
Calls, and lets in-truth, terror, and the day!

Story of a Betrothed Pair in Humble Life.
From The Borough.

Yes, there are real mourners; I have seen
A fair sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;
Attention through the day her duties claimed,
And to be useful as resigned she aimed;
Neatly she dressed, nor vainly seemed to expect
Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect ;
But when her wearied parents sank to sleep,
She sought her place to meditate and weep:
Then to her mind was all the past displayed,
That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid;
For then she thought on one regretted youth,
Her tender trust, and his unquestioned truth;
In every place she wandered where they'd been,
And sadly sacred held the parting scene
Where last for sea he took his leave-that place
With double interest would she nightly trace;
For long the courtship was, and he would say
Each time he sailed:This once, and then the day;'
Yet prudence tarried, but when last he went,
He drew from pitying love a full consent.

Happy he sailed, and great the care she took
That he should softly sleep, and smartly look ;

White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort men at sea can know,
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow;
For he to Greenland sailed, and much she told
How he should guard against the climate's cold,
Yet saw not danger, dangers he'd withstood,
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood.
His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek,
And he, too, smiled, but seldom would he speak ;
For now he found the danger, felt the pain,
With grievous symptoms he could not explain.

He called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh
A lover's message: Thomas, I must die;
Would I could see my Sally, and could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,
And gazing go! if not, this trifle take,
And say, till death I wore it for her sake.

Yes, I must die-blow on, sweet breeze, blow on!
Give me one look before my life be gone;
Oh, give me that! and let me not despair-
One last fond look-and now repeat the prayer.'
He had his wish, and more. I will not paint
The lovers' meeting: she beheld him faint-
With tender fears she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
He tried to smile, and half succeeding, said:
"Yes, I must die'-and hope for ever fled.

Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts meantime
Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.
To her he came to die, and every day
She took some portion of the dread away;
With him she prayed, to him his Bible read,
Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head;
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer,
Apart she sighed, alone she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.
One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seemed to think,
Yet said not so-'Perhaps he will not sink.'
A sudden brightness in his look appeared,
A sudden vigour in his voice was heard ;
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;
Lively he seemed, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favourite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall,
But she has treasured, and she loves them all.
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people-death has made them dear.
He named his friend, but then his hand she pressed,
And fondly whispered: "Thou must go to rest.'
'I go,' he said, but as he spoke she found

His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound;
Then gazed affrightened, but she caught a last,
A dying look of love, and all was past.

She placed a decent stone his grave above,
Neatly engraved, an offering of her love :
For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,
Awake alike to duty and the dead.

She would have grieved had they presumed to spare
The least assistance-'twas her proper care.
Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit ;
But if observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.

An English Fen-Gipsies.
From Tales-Lover's Journey.
On either side

Is level fen, a prospect wild and wide,

With dikes on either hand by ocean's self supplied:

Far on the right the distant sea is seen,
And salt the springs that feed the marsh between :
Beneath an ancient bridge, the straitened flood
Rolls through its sloping banks of slimy mud;
Near it a sunken boat resists the tide,
That frets and hurries to the opposing side;
The rushes sharp that on the borders grow,
Bend their brown flowerets to the stream below,
Impure in all its course, in all its progress slow:
Here a grave Flora scarcely deigns to bloom,
Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume;
The few dull flowers that o'er the place are spread,
Partake the nature of their fenny bed.

Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom,
Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume;
Here the dwarf sallows creep, the septfoil harsh,
And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh;
Low on the ear the distant billows sound,
And just in view appears their stony bound;
Nor hedge nor tree conceals the glowing sun;
Birds, save a watery tribe, the district shun,
Nor chirp among the reeds where bitter waters run.
Again, the country was inclosed, a wide
And sandy road has banks on either side;
Where, lo! a hollow on the left appeared,
And there a gipsy tribe their tent had reared;
'Twas open spread to catch the morning sun,
And they had now their early meal begun,
When two brown boys just left their grassy seat,
The early traveller with their prayers to greet.
While yet Orlando held his pence in hand,
He saw their sister on her duty stand;
Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly,
Prepared the force of early powers to try;
Sudden a look of languor he descries,
And well-feigned apprehension in her eyes;
Trained, but yet savage, in her speaking face
He marked the features of her vagrant race,
When a light laugh and roguish leer expressed
The vice implanted in her youthful breast.
Forth from the tent her elder brother came,
Who seemed offended, yet forbore to blame
The young designer, but could only trace
The looks of pity in the traveller's face.
Within, the father, who from fences nigh,
Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply,
Watched now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected by;
On ragged rug, just borrowed from the bed,
And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed,
In dirty patchwork negligently dressed,
Reclined the wife, an infant at her breast;
In her wild face some touch of grace remained,
Of vigour palsied, and of beauty stained;
Her bloodshot eyes on her unheeding mate
Were wrathful turned, and seemed her wants to state,
Cursing his tardy aid. Her mother there
With gipsy state engrossed the only chair;
Solemn and dull her look; with such she stands,
And reads the milkmaid's fortune in her hands,
Tracing the lines of life; assumed through years,
Each feature now the steady falsehood wears;
With hard and savage eye she views the food,
And grudging pinches their intruding brood.
Last in the group, the worn-out grandsire sits
Neglected, lost, and living but by fits;
Useless, despised, his worthless labours done,
And half protected by the vicious son,
Who half supports him, he with heavy glance
Views the young ruffians who around him dance,
And, by the sadness in his face, appears
To trace the progress of their future years;
Through what strange course of misery, vice, deceit,
Must wildly wander each unpractised cheat;
What shame and grief, what punishment and pain,
Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain,
Ere they like him approach their latter end,
Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend!

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