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So he evading said: My evil fate
George stopp'd his horse, and with the
Spoke to his Brother,-earnestly he spoke, As one who to his friend his heart reveals, And all the hazard with the comfort feels: Soon as I loved thee, Richard, and I loved Before my reason had the will approved, Who yet right early had her sanction lent, And with affection in her verdict went,So soon I felt, that thus a friend to gain, And then to lose, is but to purchase pain: Daily the pleasure grew, then sad the day That takes it all in its increase away! Patient thou wert, and kind, but well I knew
The husband's wishes, and the father's too; 1 saw how check'd they were, and yet in secret grew:
Once and again I urged thee to delay
From school, his parents, to obtain a joy
With any wish or measure to have closed,
Thine had it been, and I, a trader too,
Nor glad nor sorry that he came or went;
Who to his wife and children would have told,
Thy Brother's help to teach thy boys to read ;
Such were my views; and I had quickly made Some bold attempts my Brother to persuade To think as I did; but I knew too well, Whose now thou wert, with whom thou wert to dwell;
And why, I said, return him doubtful home, Six months to argue if he then would come Some six months after? and, beside, I know That all the happy are of course the slow; And thou at home art happy, there wilt stay, Dallying 'twixt will and will-not many a day, And fret the gloss of hope, and hope itself
Jacques is my friend ; to him I gave my heart:
Forgive me, Brother, these my words and
Our friendly Rector to Matilda bore;
And to my joy my wishes I obtain'd.
And play their gambols when their tasks are done;
Dwell in thy home, and at thy will exclude | Here, on this lawn, thy boys and girls shall
Thus George had spoken, and then look'd around,
And smiled as one who then his road had found;
There, from that window, shall their mother view
The happy tribe, and smile at all they do; While thou, more gravely, hiding thy delight,
Shalt cry: 0! childish! and enjoy the sight.
Follow! he cried, and briskly urged his horse:
Richard the purchase of his Brother knew; And something flash'd upon his mind not clear, But much with pleasure mix'd, in part with fear;
As one who wandering through a stormy night
Sees his own home, and gladdens at the sight, Yet feels some doubt if fortune had decreed That lively pleasure in such time of need; So Richard felt-but now the mansion came In view direct, he knew it for the same; There too the garden-walk, the elms design'd To guard the peaches from the eastern wind; And there the sloping glass, that when he shines
Gives the sun's vigour to the ripening vines— It is my Brother's!-No! he answers, No! 'Tis to thy own possession that we go; It is thy wife's, and will thy children's be, Earth, wood, and water!—all for thine and thee;
Bought in thy name- -Alight, my friend, and come,
I do beseech thee, to thy proper home; There wilt thou soon thy own Matilda view, She knows our deed, and she approves it too; Before her all our views and plans were laid, And Jacques was there t' explain and to persuade.
Stay, as you will-do any thing--but stay;
And hear me, Richard! if I should offend,
But let thy wife her cheerful smile withhold,
But this was needless—there was joy of heart,
All felt the good that all desired t' impart;
Our Tale of Tales!- Health, reader, and repose!
THE PARISH REGISTER.
Tam porro puer (ut sævis projectus ab undis, Navita) nudus humi jacet infans indigus omni Vitali auxilio,
Vagituque locum lugubri complet, ut æquum est, Cui tantum in vita restat transire malorum.
THE year revolves, and I again explore The simple annals of my parish-poor; What infant-members in my flock appear, What pairs I bless'd in the departed year; And who, of old or young,or nymphs or swains, Are lost to life, its pleasures and its pains. No Muse I ask, before my view to bring The humble actions of the swains I sing. How pass'd the youthful, how the old their days;
Who sank in sloth,and who aspired to praise;
By what elated, soothed, seduced, depress'd,
Or keeps the sunshine from the cottage-gate; Where young and old, intent on pleasure, throng,
And half man's life is holiday and song? Vain search for scenes like these! no view appears,
By sighs unruffled or unstain'd by tears; Since Vice the world subdued and waters drown'd,
Auburn and Eden can no more be found. Hence good and evil mix'd, but man has skill
And power to part them, when he feels the will!
Toil, care, and patience bless th' abstemious few,
Fear, shame, and want the thoughtless herd pursue.
Behold the cot! where thrives th' industrious swain, Source of his pride,his pleasure, and his gain; Screen'd from the winter's wind, the sun's last ray Smiles on the window and prolongs the day;
Projecting thatch the woodbine's branches
And turn their blossoms to the casement's top: All need requires is in that cot contain'd, And much that Taste untaught and unrestrain'd
Surveys delighted; there she loves to trace, In one gay picture, all the royal race; Around the walls are heroes, lovers, kings; The print that shows them and the verse that sings.
Here the last Lewis on his throne is seen, And there he stands imprison'd,and his queen; To these the mother takes her child, and shows
What grateful duty to his God he owes ; Who gives to him a happy home, where he Lives and enjoys his freedom with the free; When kings and queens, dethroned, insulted, tried,
Are all these blessings of the poor denied. There is King Charles, and all his Golden Rules,
Who proved Misfortune's was the best of schools:
And there his son, who, tried by years of pain,
Close at the side of kind Godiva hung;
And here Saint Monday's worthy votaries live,
In all the joys that ale and skittles give. Now lo! in Egypt's coast that hostile fleet, By nations dreaded and by Nelson beat; And here shall soon another triumph come, A deed of glory in a day of gloom; Distressing glory! grievous boon of fate! The proudest conquest, at the dearest rate. On shelf of deal beside the cuckoo-clock, Of cottage-reading rests the chosen stock; Learning we lack, not books, but have a kind For all our wants, a meat for every mind: The tale for wonder and the joke for whim, The half-sung sermon and the half-groan'd hymn.
No need of classing; each within its place The feeling finger in the dark can trace; First from the corner, farthest from the wall, Such all the rules, and they suffice for all.
There pious works for Sunday's use are found;
Companions for that Bible newly bound; That Bible, bought by sixpence weekly saved, Has choicest prints by famous hands engraved;
Has choicest notes by many a famous head, Such as to doubt have rustic readers led; Have made them stop to reason why? and how?
And, where they once agreed, to cavil now. O! rather give me commentators plain, Who with no deep researches vex the brain; Who from the dark and doubtful love to run,
And hold their glimmering tapers to the
These are the peasant's joy, when, placed at ease,
Half his delighted offspring mount his knees.
The careful peasant plies the sinewy arm,
Who simple truth with nine-fold reasons | The leek with crown globose and reedy
back, And guard the point no enemies attack. High climb his pulse in many an even row, Bunyan's famed Pilgrim rests that shelf Deep strike the ponderous roots in soil And herbs of potent smell and pungent taste,
A genius rare but rude was honest John;
Here to interpret dreams we read the rules,
Give a warm relish to the night's repast. Apples and cherries grafted by his hand, And cluster'd nuts for neighbouring market stand.
Nor thus concludes his labour; near the cot,
The reed-fence rises round some fav'rite spot; Where rich carnations, pinks with purple eyes,
cern, Proud hyacinths, the least some florist's prize, And Fate's fix'd will from Nature's wander-Tulips tall-stemm'd and pounced auriculas ings learn.
Of Hermit Quarle we read, in island rare, Far from mankind and seeming far from
Safe from all want, and sound in every limb; Yes! there was he, and there was care with him.
Unbound and heap'd, these valued works beside,
Lay humbler works, the pedlar's pack supplied;
Yet these, long since, have all acquired a
The wandering Jew has found his way to fame; And fame, denied to many a labour'd song, Crowns Thumb the great, and Hickerthrift the strong. There too is he, by wizard-power upheld, Jack, by whose arm the giant-brood were quell'd:
His shoes of swiftness on his feet he placed; His coat of darkness on his loins he braced; His sword of sharpness in his hand he took, And off the heads of doughty giants stroke: Their glaring eyes beheld no mortal near; No sound of feet alarm'd the drowsy ear; No English blood their pagan sense could smell,
But heads dropt headlong, wondering why they fell.
Here on a Sunday-eve, when service ends,
Where all are talkers and where none can teach;
Where still the welcome and the words are old,
And the same stories are for ever told;
That forms these tones of gladness we despise, That lifts their steps, that sparkles in their eyes;
That talks or laughs or runs or shouts or plays,
And speaks in all their looks and all their ways. Fair scenes of peace! ye might detain us long,
But vice and misery now demand the song ; And turn our view from dwellings simply
Riots are nightly heard:-the curse, the cries Of beaten wife, perverse in her replies; While shrieking children hold each threat'ning hand,
And sometimes life, and sometimes food demand:
Boys, in their first-stol'n rags, to swear begin, And girls, who heed not dress, are skill'd in gin:
Snarers and smugglers here their gains
And poorer than the poorest maid she dupes. Between the road - way and the walls, offence
Invades all eyes and strikes on every sense: There lie, obscene, at every open door, Heaps from the hearth and sweepings from the floor,
And day by day the mingled masses grow, As sinks are disembogued and kennels flow. There hungry dogs from hungry children
See! as we gaze, an infant lifts its head, Left by neglect and burrow'd in that bed; The mother-gossip has the love suppress'd An infant's cry once waken'd in her breast; And daily prattles, as her round she takes, (With strong resentment) of the want she makes.
Whence all these woes?-From want of virtuous will,
Of honest shame, of time-improving skill; From want of care t' employ the vacant hour, And want of ev'ry kind but want of power. Here are no wheels for either wool or flax, But packs of cards-made up of sundry packs; Here is no clock, nor will they turn the glass, And see how swift th' important moments
Here are no books, but ballads on the wall,
Of every kind, for rivers, ponds, and brooks;
And bludgeons stout to gain or guard a prize. To every house belongs a space of ground, Of equal size, once fenced with paling round; That paling now by slothful waste destroy'd, Dead gorse and stumps of elder fill the void; Save in the centre-spot, whose walls of clay Hide sots and striplings at their drink or play: Within, a board, beneath a tiled retreat, Allures the bubble and maintains the cheat; Where heavy ale in spots like varnish shows, Where chalky tallies yet remain in rows; Black pipes and broken jugs the seats defile, The walls and windows, rhymes and reck'nings vile;
Prints of the meanest kind disgrace the door, And cards, in curses torn, lie fragments on the floor.
Here his poor bird th' inhuman cocker brings,
Arms his hard heel and clips his golden wings; With spicy food th' impatient spirit feeds, And shouts and curses as the battle bleeds. Struck through the brain, deprived of both his eyes,
The vanquish'd bird must combat till he dies; Must faintly peck at his victorious foe, And reel and stagger at each feeble blow: When fallen, the savage grasps his dabbled plumes,
His blood-stain'd arms for other deaths
assumes; And damns the craven-fowl, that lost his stake,
And only bled and perish'd for his sake. Such are our peasants, those to whom we yield
Praise with relief, the fathers of the field; And these who take from our reluctant hands, What Burn advises or the Bench commands.