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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 I and, with the bubbling and loud hissing urn'on


the table, ' welcome peaceful evening in,' but the humorous and homely descriptions ; but it is too amenities of refined and intellectual society were much of a manner, and mars the finer passages. constantly present with him, or åt his call. Yet Crabbe has high merit as a painter of English he did not, like Cowper, attempt to describe scenery. He is here as original and forcible as them, or to paint their manifold charms. When in delineating character. His marine landscapes he took up his pen, his mind turned to Aldbor- are peculiarly fresh and striking; and he invests ough and its wild amphibious race-to the parish even the sterile fens and barren sands with workhouse, where the wheel hummed doleful interest. His objects are seldom picturesque ; through the day—to erring damsels and luckless but he noted every weed and plant--the purple swains, the prey of overseers or justices—or to bloom of the heath, the dwarfish flowers among the haunts of desperate poachers and smugglers, the wild gorse, the slender grass of the sheepgipsies and gamblers, where vice and misery walk, and even the pebbles, sea-weed, and shells stalked undisguised in their darkest forms.

amid He stirred up the dregs of human society, and

The glittering waters on the shingles rolled. exhibited their blackness and deformity, yet worked them into poetry. Like his own Sir He was a great lover of the sea, and once, as his Richard Monday, he never forgot the parish. It son relates, after being some time absent from it, is true that village-life in England in its worst mounted his horse and rode alone sixty miles form, with the old poor and game laws and non- from his house, that he might inhale its freshness resident clergy, was composed of various mate- and gaze upon its waters. rials, some bright and some gloomy, and Crabbe drew them all. His Isaac Ashford is as honourable to the lowly English poor as the Jeanie

The Parish Workhouse and Apothecary. Deans or Dandie Dinmont of Scott are to the

From The Village, Scottish character. His story of the real mourner, the faithful maid who watched over her dying

Theirs is yon house that holds the parish poor,

Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; sailor, is a beautiful tribute to the force and purity

There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play, of humble affection. - In The Parting Hour and

And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; The Patron are also passages equally honourable

There children dwell who know no parents' care ; to the poor and middle classes, and full of

Parents, who know no children's love, dw there ; pathetic and graceful composition. It must be Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, confessed, however, that Crabbe was in general Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed; a gloomy painter of life-that he was fond of Dejected widows with unheeded tears, depicting the unlovely and unamiable—and that, And crippled age with more than childhood-fears; either for poetic effect or from painful experience, The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they ! he makes the bad of life predominate over the The moping idiot and the madman gay.

Here too the sick their final doom receive, good. His pathos and tenderness are generally linked to something coarse, startling, or humili

Here brought amid the scenes of grief, to grieve,

Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, ating to disappointed hopes or unavailing sorrow

Mixed with the clamours of the crowd below;
Still we tread the same coarse way,

Here sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan,
The present 's still a cloudy day.

And the cold charities of man to man:

Whose laws indeed for ruined age provide, The minuteness with which he dwells on such

And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride ; subjects sometimes makes his descriptions tedious, But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, and apparently unfeeling. He drags forward

And pride embitters what it can't deny. every defect, every vice and failing, not for the Say ye, oppressed by some fantastic woes, purpose of educing something good out of the Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose ; evil, but, as it would seem, merely for the purpose Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance of completing the picture. In his higher flights, With timid eye, to read the distant glance ; where scenes of strong passion, vice, or remorse

Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease, are depicted, Crabbe is a moral poet, purifying

To name the nameless ever-new disease ; the heart, as the object of tragedy has been de

Who with mock patience dire complaints endure,

Which real pain and that alone can cure ; fined, by terror and pity, and by fearful delinea

How would ye bear in real pain to lie, tions of the misery and desolation caused by

Despised, neglected, left alone to die ? unbridled passion. His story of Sir Eustace Grey

How would ye bear to draw your latest breath is a domestic tragedy of this kind, related with Where all that's wretched paves the way for death? almost terrific power, and with lyrical energy of Such is that room which one rude beam divides, versification. His general style of versification is And naked rafters form the sloping sides ; the couplet of Pope—he has been wittily called Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, * Pope in worsted stockings '—but less flowing And lath and mud are all that lie between ; and melodious, and often ending in points and

Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patched, gives way quibbles. Thus, in describing his cottage furni- To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day : ture, he says,

Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread,

The drooping wretch reclines his languid head ; No wheels are here for either wool or flax,

For him no hand the cordial cup applies, But packs of cards made up of sundry packs.

Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes ;

No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile, His thrifty housewife, Widow Goe, falls down in

Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile. sickness

But soon a loud and hasty summons calls, Heaven in her eye, and in her hand her keys.

Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls


Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat,
This jingling style heightens the effect of his 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
Or man; and silent sinks into the grave.

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 I 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.

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 ;
On 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 ;

Phabe Dawson.--From the Parish Register.'

Two summers since, I saw at Lammas fair, The sweetest flower that ever blossomed there; When Phæbe 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 Phæbe 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

And told his hope ; her trembling joy appears, Led by the lover, walked the silent maid :

Her forced reserve, and his retreating fears. Slow through the meadows roved they many a mile, All now are present—'tis a moment's gleam Toyed by each bank and trifled at each stile;

Of former sunshine-stay, delightful dream ! Where, as he painted every blissful view,

Let him within his pleasant garden walk, And highly coloured what he strongly drew,

Give him her arm, of blessings let them talk. The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears,

Yes! all are with him now, and all the while Dimmed the false prospect with prophetic tears : Life's early prospects and his Fanny's smile; Thus passed the allotted hours, till, lingering late, Then come his sister and his village friend, The lover loitered at the master's gate ;

And he will now the sweetest moments spend There he pronounced adieu! and yet would stay, Life has to yield : no, never will he find Till chidden-soothed—entreated-forced away! Again on earth such pleasure in his mind : He would of coldness, though indulged, complain, He goes through shrubby walks these friends among, And oft retire and oft return again ;

Love in their looks and honour on the tongue; When, if his teasing vexed her gentle mind,

Nay, there 's a charm beyond what nature shews, The grief assumed compelled her to be kind !

The bloom is softer, and more sweetly glows; For he would proof of plighted kindness crave,

Pierced by no crime, and urged by no desire That she resented first, and then forgave,

For more than true and honest hearts require, And to his grief and penance yielded more

They feel the calm delight, and thus proceed Than his presumption had required before :

Through the green lane, then linger in the mead, Ah! Ay temptation, youth ; refrain ! refrain ! Stray o'er the heath in all its purple bloom,

Each yielding maid and each presuming swain ! And pluck the blossom where the wild-bees hum ; Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, Then through the broomy bound with ease they pass, And torn green gown loose hanging at her back, And press the sandy sheep-walk's slender grass, One who an infant in her arms sustains,

Where dwarfish flowers among the gorse are spread, And seems in patience striving with her pains ;

And the lamb browses by the linnet's bed ; Pinched are her looks, as one who pines for bread, Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their way Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are fled ; O'er its rough bridge, and there behold the bay ; Pale her parched lips, her heavy eyes sunk low, The ocean smiling to the servid sun, And tears unnoticed from their channels flow;

The waves that faintly fall, and slowly run, Serene her manner, till some sudden pain

The ships at distance, and the boats at hand; Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again. And now they walk upon the sea-side sand,

But who this child of weakness, want, and care ? Counting the number, and what kind they be, 'Tis Phæbe Dawson, pride of Lammas fair ;

Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea; Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes,

Now arm in arm, now parted, they behold Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies :

The glittering waters on the shingles rolled : Compassion first assailed her gentle heart

The timid girls, half dreading their design, For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart :

Dip the small foot in the retarded brine, “And then his prayers ! they would a savage move,

And search for crimson weeds, which spreading flow, And win the coldest of the sex to love :'

Or lię like pictures on the sand below; But ah! too soon his looks success declared,

With all those bright red pebbles that the sun Too late her loss the marriage-rite repaired ;

Through the small waves so softly shines upon ; The faithless flatterer then his vows forgot,

And those live lucid jellies which the eye A captious tyrant or a noisy sot :

Delights to trace as they swim glittering by ; If present, railing till he saw her pained ;

Pearl shells and rubied star-fish they admire, If absent, spending what their labours gained ;

And will arrange above the parlour fire. Till that fair form in want and sickness pined,

Tokens of bliss ! 'Oh, horrible ! a wave And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind.

Roars as it rises-save me, Edward, save !' Then fly temptation, youth ; resist ! refrain !

She cries. Alas! the watchman on his way Nor let me preach for ever and in vain !

Calls, and lets in-truth, terror, and the day!

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 between-
The 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 fight;
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


Story of a Belrothed 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 fed.

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.

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 persume ;
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 persume ;
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, ló! 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 sed,
In dirty patchwork negligently dressed,
Reclined the wise, 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 wrathsul 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 !

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 :


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