The simple nymphs! they little know How far more happy's their estate; To smile for joy, than sigh for woe; To be content, than to be great.

How far less bless'd am I than them,

Daily to pine and waste with care! Like the poor plant, that, from its stem Divided, feels the chilling air.

Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy

The humble charms of solitude; Your minions proud my peace destroy, By sullen frowns, or pratings rude.

Last night, as sad I chanced to stray,
The village death-bell smote my ear;
They wink'd aside, and seem'd to say,
'Countess, prepare-thy end is near.'

And now, while happy peasants sleep,
Here I sit lonely and forlorn;
No one to soothe me as I weep,
Save Philomel on yonder thorn.

My spirits flag, my hopes decay;

Still that dread death-bell smites my ear; And many a body seems to say,

⚫ Countess, prepare-thy end is near." "

Thus sore and sad that lady grieved

In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear; And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, And let fall many a bitter tear.

And ere the dawn of day appear'd,

In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, Full many a piercing scream was heard, And many a cry of mortal fear.

The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, An aerial voice was heard to call, And thrice the raven flapp'd his wing Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.

The mastiff howl'd at village door,

The oaks were shatter'd on the green; Woe was the hour, for never more

That hapless Countess e'er was seen.

And in that manor, now no more

Is cheerful feast or sprightly ball; For ever since that dreary hour

Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.

The village maids, with fearful glance,
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall;
Nor ever lead the merry dance
Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.
Full many a traveller has sigh'd,

And pensive wept the Countess' fall, As wandering onwards they've espied The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.

Mickle.-Born 1734, Died 1788.

929. THE MARINER'S WIFE. And are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he's weel ? Is this a time to think o' wark? Make haste, lay by your wheel; Is this a time to spin a thread, When Colin's at the door? Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman 's awa.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's satin gown;
For I maun tell the baillie's wife
That Colin's in the town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
My stockings pearly blue;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;

Gie little Kate her button gown

And Jock his Sunday coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been lang awa.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop,
Been fed this month and mair;
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;

And mak our table neat and clean,
Let everything look braw,

For wha can tell how Colin fared
When he was far awa?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
His breath like caller air;

His very foot has music in't

As he comes up the stair.
And shall I see his face again?
And shall I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet!

The cauld blasts o' the winter wind,
That thirled through my heart,
They're a' blawn by, I hae him safe,
Till death we'll never part;
But what puts parting in my head?
It may be far awa!

The present moment is our ain,

The neist we never saw.

Since Colin's weel, and weel content,
I hae nae mair to crave;
And gin I live to keep him sae,
I'm blest aboon the lave.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa.

Mickle.-Born 1734, Died 1788.

930.-COUNTRY JUSTICES AND THEIR DUTIES.

The social laws from insult to protect,
To cherish peace, to cultivate respect;
The rich from wanton cruelty restrain,
To smooth the bed of penury and pain;
The hapless vagrant to his rest restore,
The maze of fraud, the haunts of theft
explore ;

The thoughtless maiden, when subdued by art,

To aid, and bring her rover to her heart;
Wild riot's voice with dignity to quell,
Forbid unpeaceful passions to rebel,
Wrest from revenge the meditated harm:
For this fair Justice raised her sacred arm;
For this the rural magistrate, of yore,
Thy honours, Edward, to his mansion bore.
Oft, where old Air in conscious glory
sails,

On silver waves that flow through smiling vales;

In Harewood's groves, where long my youth was laid,

Unseen beneath their ancient world of shade; With many a group of antique columns

crown'd,

O'er floods, o'er mountains yet prepared to fly,

Long ere the death-drop fill'd his failing eye!

Here famed for cunning, and in crimes grown old,

Hangs his gray brush, the felon of the fold. Oft as the rent-feast swells the midnight cheer,

The maudlin farmer kens him o'er his beer,
And tells his old, traditionary tale,
Though known to every tenant of the vale.
Here, where of old the festal ox has fed,
Mark'd with his weight, the mighty horns are
spread!

Some ox, O Marshall, for a board like thine,
Where the vast master with the vast sirloin
Vied in round magnitude-Respect I bear
To thee, though oft the ruin of the chair.

These, and such antique tokens that record The manly spirit, and the bounteous board, Me more delight than all the gewgaw train, The whims and zigzags of a modern brain, More than all Asia's marmosets to view, Grin, frisk, and water in the walks of Kew. Through these fair valleys, stranger, hast

thou stray'd,

By any chance, to visit Harewood's shade,
And seen with honest, antiquated air
In the plain hall the magistratial chair?
There Herbert sat-The love of human kind,
Pure light of truth, and temperance of mind,
In the free eye the featured soul display'd,
Honour's strong beam, and Mercy's melting

shade:

Justice that, in the rigid paths of law, Would still some drops from Pity's fountain draw,

Bend o'er her urn with many a gen'rous fear, Ere his firm seal should force one orphan's

tear;

Fair equity, and reason scorning art,
And all the sober virtues of the heart-
These sat with Herbert, these shall best avail
Where statutes order, or where statutes fail.
Be this, ye rural magistrates, your plan:
Firm be your justice, but be friends to man.
He whom the mighty master of this ball
We fondly deem, or farcically call,
To own the patriarch's truth, however loth,
Holds but a mansion crush'd before the moth.
Frail in his genius, in his heart too frail,
Born but to err, and erring to bewail,
Shalt thou his faults with eye severe explore,
And give to life one human weakness more?

Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed;

Still mark the strong temptation and the need:

On pressing want, on famine's powerful call, At least more lenient let thy justice fall.

For him, who, lost to every hope of life, Has long with fortune held unequal strife, Known to no human love, no human care, The friendless, homeless object of despair; For the poor vagrant feel, while he complains, Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. Alike, if folly or misfortune brought Those last of woes his evil days have wrought; Believe with social mercy and with me, Folly's misfortune in the first degree.

Perhaps on some inhospitable shore The houseless wretch a widow'd parent bore; Who then, no more by golden prospects led, Of the poor Indian begg'd a leafy bed. Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, Perhaps that parent mourn'd her soldier slain;

Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, The big drops mingling with the milk he drew,

Gave the sad presage of his future years,
The child of misery, baptized in tears!

Dr. Langhorne.-Born 1735, Died 1779.

931.-GIPSIES.

The gipsy race my pity rarely move;
Yet their strong thirst of liberty I love.
Not Wilkes, our Freedom's holy martyr,

more;

Nor his firm phalanx of the common shore.

For this in Norwood's patrimonial groves The tawny father with his offspring roves; When summer suns lead slow the sultry day, In mossy caves, where welling waters play, Fann'd by each gale that cools the fervid sky, With this in ragged luxury they lie. Oft at the sun the dusky elfins strain The sable eye, then snugging, sleep again; Oft as the dews of cooler evening fall, For their prophetic mother's mantle call.

Far other cares that wand'ring mother wait,

The mouth, and oft the minister of fate! From her to hear, in ev'ning's friendly shade, Of future fortune, flies the village maid, Draws her long-hoarded copper from its hold, And rusty halfpence purchase hopes of gold, But, ah! ye maids, beware the gipsy's lures!

She opens not the womb of time, but yours. Oft has her hands the hapless Marian wrung, Marian, whom Gay in sweetest strains has sung!

The parson's maid-sore cause had she to

932.-AN APPEAL FOR THE
INDUSTRIOUS POOR.

But still, forgot the grandeur of thy reign,
Descend to duties meaner crowns disdain;
That worst excrescency of power forego,
That pride of kings, humanity's first foe.

Let age no longer toil with feeble strife,
Worn by long service in the war of life;
Nor leave the head, that time hath whiten'd,
bare

To the rude insults of the searching air;
Nor bid the knee, by labour harden'd, bend,
O thou, the poor man's hope, the poor man's
friend!

If, when from heaven severer seasons fall, Fled from the frozen roof and mouldering

wall,

He where no fees his sordid pen invite,

Sports with their tears, too indolent to write;
Like the fed monkey in the fable, vain
To hear more helpless animals complain.

But chief thy notice shall one monster
claim,

A monster furnish'd with a human frame,
The parish officer!-though verse disdain
Terms that deform the splendour of the
strain;

It stoops to bid thee bend the brow severe
On the sly, pilfering, cruel overseer;
The shuffling farmer, faithful to no trust,
Ruthless as rocks, insatiate as the dust!

When the poor hind, with length of years decay'd,

Leans feebly on his once-subduing spade,
Forgot the service of his abler days,

His profitable toil, and honest praise,
Shall this low wretch abridge his scanty
bread,

This slave, whose board his former labours spread?

When harvest's burning suns and sickening air

From labour's unbraced hand the grasp'd hook tear,

Where shall the helpless family be fed,
That vainly languish for a father's bread?
See the pale mother, sunk with grief and care,
To the proud farmer fearfully repair;
Soon to be sent with insolence away,
Referr'd to vestries, and a distant day!
Referr'd-to perish !-Is my verse severe ?
Unfriendly to the human character?
Ah! to this sigh of sad experience trust:
The truth is rigid, but the tale is just.

If in thy courts this caitiff wretch appear, Think not that patience were a virtue here. His low-born pride with honest rage control; Smite his hard heart, and shake his reptile soul.

But, hapless! oft through fear of future

woe,

And certain vengeance of th' insulting foe, Oft, ere to thee the poor prefer their prayer, The last extremes of penury they bear.

Wouldst thou then raise thy patriot office higher,

To something more than magistrate aspire? And, left each poorer, pettier chase behind, Step nobly forth, the friend of human kind? The game I start courageously pursue! Adieu to fear! to insolence adieu!

And first we'll range this mountain's stormy side,

Where the rude winds the shepherd's roof deride,

As meet no more the wintry blast to bear,
And all the wild hostilities of air.

-That roof have I remember'd many a year;
It once gave refuge to a hunted deer-

Here, in those days, we found an aged

pair ;

But time untenants-ha! what seest thou there?

Unnumber'd objects ask thy honest care,
Beside the orphan's tear, the widow's prayer:
Far as thy power can save, thy bounty bless,
Unnumber'd evils call for thy redress.
Seest thou afar yon solitary thorn,
Whose aged limbs the heath's wild winds have
torn?

While yet to cheer the homeward shepherd's eye,

A few seem straggling in the evening sky! Not many suns have hasten'd down the day, Or blushing moons immersed in clouds their way,

Since there, a scene that stain'd their sacred light

With horror stopp'd a felon in his flight:
A babe just born that signs of life exprest,
Lay naked o'er the mother's lifeless breast.
The pitying robber, conscious that, pursued,
He had no time to waste, yet stood and
view'd;

To the next cot the trembling infant bore,
And gave a part of what he stole before;
Nor known to him the wretches were, nor
dear,

He felt as man, and dropp'd a human tear.

Far other treatment she who breathless lay, Found from a viler animal of prey.

Worn with long toil on many a painful road,

That toil increased by nature's growing load, When evening brought the friendly hour of rest,

And all the mother throng'd about her breast,
The ruffian officer opposed her stay,
And, cruel, bore her in her pangs away,

So far beyond the town's last limits drove, That to return were hopeless, had she strove, Abandon'd there-with famine, pain and cold, And anguish, she expired-the rest I've told. "Now let me swear. For by my soul's last sigh,

That thief shall live, that overseer shall die." Too late!-his life the generous robber paid,

Lost by that pity which his steps delay'd!
No soul-discerning Mansfield sat to hear,
No Hertford bore his prayer to mercy's ear;
No liberal justice first assign'd the gaol,
Or urged, as Camplin would have urged, his
tale.

Dr. Langhorne.-Born 1735, Died 1779.

934-A FAREWELL TO THE VALLEY OF IRWAN.

Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale,

My infant years where Fancy led, And soothed me with the western gale,

Her wild dreams waving round my head, While the blithe blackbird told his tale. Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale!

The primrose on the valley's side,

The green thyme on the mountain's head, The wanton rose, the daisy pied,

The wilding's blossom blushing red;

No longer I their sweets inhale.
Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale!

How oft, within yon vacant shade,

Has evening closed my careless eye! How oft along those banks I've stray'd, And watch'd the wave that wander'd by ; Full long their loss shall I bewail. Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale!

Yet still, within yon vacant grove,

To mark the close of parting day; Along yon flowery banks to rove,

And watch the wave that winds away; Fair Fancy sure shall never fail, Though far from these and Irwan's vale.

Dr. Langhorne.-Born 1735, Died 1779.

935. OWEN OF CARRON.

I.

On Carron's side the primrose pale,
Why does it wear a purple hue?

Ye maidens fair of Marlivale,

Why stream your eyes with pity's dew?

'Tis all with gentle Owen's blood
That purple grows the primrose pale;
That pity pours the tender flood
From each fair eye in Marlivale.

The evening star sat in his eye,

The sun his golden tresses gave, The north's pure morn her orient dye, To him who rests in yonder grave!

Beneath no high, historic stone,

Though nobly born, is Owen laid; Stretch'd on the greenwood's lap alone, He sleeps beneath the waving shade. There many a flowery race hath sprung, And fled before the mountain gale, Since first his simple dirge he sung; Ye maidens fair of Marlivale!

Yet still, when May with fragrant feet Hath wander'd o'er your meads of gold, That dirge I hear so simply sweet

Far echo'd from each evening fold.

II.

'Twas in the pride of William's day, When Scotland's honours flourish'd still, That Moray's earl, with mighty sway,

Bare rule o'er many a Highland hill.

And far for him their fruitful store The fairer plains of Carron spread; In fortune rich, in offspring poor,

An only daughter crown'd his bed.

Oh! write not poor-the wealth that flows
In waves of gold round India's throne,
All in her shining breast that glows,
To Ellen's charms, were earth and stone.

For her the youth of Scotland sigh'd,
The Frenchman gay, the Spaniard grave,
And smoother Italy applied,

And many an English baron brave.

In vain by foreign arts assail'd,

No foreign loves her breast beguile, And England's honest valour fail'd, Paid with a cold, but courteous smile. Ah! woe to thee, young Nithisdale, That o'er thy cheek those roses stray'd, Thy breath, the violet of the vale,

Thy voice, the music of the shade!

"Ah! woe to thee, that Ellen's love Alone to thy soft tale would yield! For soon those gentle arms shall prove The conflict of a ruder field."

'Twas thus a wayward sister spoke,
And cast a rueful glance behind,
As from her dim wood-glen she broke,
And mounted on the moaning wind.