She only left of all the harmless train,
The sad historian of the pensive plain.

Near yonder copse, where once the
garden smiled,

And still where many a garden flower grows wild,

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,

The village preacher's modest mansion

rose.

A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a

year;

Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place;

Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,

More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train,

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;

The long-remembered beggar was his guest,

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,

Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;

Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.

Pleased with his guests, the good man

learned to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to

scan,

His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,

And even his failings leaned to virtue's side:

But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;

Well had the boding tremblers learned

to trace

The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee,

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.

Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault. The village all declared how much he knew;

"T was certain he could write, and cipher too;

Lands he could measure, times and tides presage,

And even the story ran that he could gauge; In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, For, even though vanquished, he could argue still;

While words of learned length and thundering sound

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; And still they gazed, and still the wonder

67

Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;

Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's
tale,

No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;

No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,

Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear.

The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling blissgo round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.

"But chiefly by his face and mien,

That were so fair to view, His flaxen locks that sweetly curled, And eyes of lovely blue."

"O lady, he is dead and gone!

Lady, he's dead and gone! And at his head a green grass turf,

And at his heels a stone.

"Within these holy cloisters long He languished, and he died, Lamenting of a lady's love,

And 'plaining of her pride.

"Here bore him barefaced on his bier
Six proper youths and tall;
And many a tear bedewed his grave
Within yon kirk yard wall."

"And art thou dead, thou gentle youth?
And art thou dead and gone?
And didst thou die for love of me?
Break, cruel heart of stone!"

"O, weep not, lady, weep not so;
Some ghostly comfort seek:
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
Nor tears bedew thy cheek."

"O do not, do not, holy friar,

My sorrow now reprove; For I have lost the sweetest youth That e'er won lady's love.

"And now, alas! for thy sad loss

I'll evermore weep and sigh; For thee I only wished to live, For thee I wish to die."

"Weep no more, lady, weep no more;
Thy sorrow is in vain :
For violets plucked, the sweetest shower
Will ne'er make grow again.

"Our joys as wingéd dreams do fly;
Why then should sorrow last?
Since grief but aggravates thy loss,
Grieve not for what is past."

"O, say not so, thou holy friar!

I pray thee say not so;

For since my true love died for me, 'Tis meet my tears should flow.

"And will he never come again? Will he ne'er come again?

"And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth,

And didst thou die for me? Then farewell home; foreverinore A pilgrim I will be.

"But first upon my true-love's grave My weary limbs I'll lay,

And thrice I'll kiss the green grass turf That wraps his breathless clay.'

"Yet stay, fair lady, rest awhile Beneath this cloister wall; The cold wind through the hawthorn blows,

And drizzly rain doth fall."

"O, stay me not, thou holy friar,
O stay me not, I pray;
No drizzly rain that falls on me
Can wash my fault away."

"Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
And dry those pearly tears;
For see, beneath this gown of
Thy own true-love appears.

gray

"Here, forced by grief and hopeless love,
These holy weeds I sought;
And here, amid these lonely walls,
To end my days I thought.

"But haply, for my year of grace
Is not yet passed away,

Might I still hope to win thy love,
No longer would I stay."

"Now farewell grief, and welcome joy

Once more unto my heart; For since I've found thee, lovely youth, We nevermore will part.'

WILLIAM COWPER.

[1731-1800.]

LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

TOLL for the brave!

The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave

Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds
And she was overset;
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak,

She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down
With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more.

69

LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed

With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

Those lips are thine,thy own sweet smile I see,

The same that out in childhood solaced

ine;

Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away!"

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim To quench it!) here shines on me still the

same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, Owelcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bid'st me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, Shall steep me in Elysian revery, A momentary dream that thou art she. My mother! when I learned that thou

wast dead,

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?

Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?

Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;

Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile! it answers Yes.

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew

A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such? It was. Where thou

art gone, Adieusand farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,

The parting words shall pass my lips no

more!

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return;
What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived;
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and
went,

Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er
forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,

Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;

And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped

In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 'T is now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house