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Where we will sit upon the rocks,
What should we talk of dainties then, And see thc Shepherds feed our flocks,
Of better meat than's fit for men ? By shallow rivers, to whose falls
These are but vain : that's only good Melodious birds sing madrigals.
Which God hath blest, and sent for food. And I will make thee beds of roses,
But could youth last, and love still breed, And then a thousand fragrant posies,
Had joys no date, nor age no need ;A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Then those delights my mind might move, Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
To live with thee, and be thy Love. A gown made of the finest wool,
“ MOTHER. Well, I have done my song; Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
but stay, honest Anglers, for I will make Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold,
Maudlin to sing you one short song more. With buckles of the purest gold.
Maudlin, sing that song that you sung last A belt of straw, and ivy-buds,
night, when young Coridon the Shepherd With coral clasps and amber studs ; played so purely on his oaten pipe to you And if these pleasures may thee move, and your cousin Betty. Come live with me, and be my Love. “ MAUD. I will, Mother.
“ I married a Wife of late, Thy silver dishes for thy meat,
The more's my unhappy fate : As precious as the Gods do eat,
I married her for love, Shall on an ivory table be
As my fancy did me move, Prepar'd each day for thee and me.
And not for a worldly estate : The Shepherd-Swains shall dance and
But oh! the green-sickness sing,
Soon changed her likeness; For thy delight each May-morning :
And all her beauty did fail. If these delights thy mind may move,
But 'tis not so, Then live with me, and be my Love.
With those that go, “ Ven. Trust me, Master, it is a choice
Through frost and snow, Song, and sweetly sung by honest Maudlin.
As all men know, I now see it was not without cause, that
And carry the milking-pail.” our good Queen Elizabeth did so often Friend Major! for although thou wish herself a Milk-maid all the month knowest not us, yet we know thee, and of May, because they are not troubled all we know is good, thanks for our with fears and cares, but sing sweetly all
copy of this most praiseworthy edition the day, and sleep securely all the night :
of a most praiseworthy book. We have and, without doubt, honest, innocent, stept of old, wrapt up in our nameless pretty Maudlin does so.
I'll bestow Sir obscurity, into thy tiny arch below Thomas Overbury's Milk-maid's wish up
the gateway of Bartholomew's Hospion her, ' That she may die in the Spring, tal. We have coft from thee, at fair and, being dead, may have good store of flowers stuck round about her winding- book, which now we would not re-sell
and moderate terms, many an old odd sheet.'
to thee, or any other bibliopole under THE MILK-MAID'S MOTHER'S ANSWER. the sun, moon, and stars, for quadru« If all the world and love were young,
ple the purchase-money. We looked,
about a year ago, into thy snug shop And truth in ev'ry Shepherd's tongue,
in Fleet-street, and were happy at These pretty pleasures might me move
heart to see that thou wert prosperTo live with thee, and be thy Love.
Should'st thou ever come down But time drives flocks from field to fold,
to Scotland, and if thou be'st a broWhen rivers rage, and rocks grow cold,
ther of the angle, which assuredly thou Then Philomel becometh dumb,
must be, else how love and know old And age complains of care to come.
Izaak so well, we shall shew thee such The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
angling as never before gladdened thine To wayward winter reckoning yields, eyne or tried thy trembling touch. A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
For, is not the silver Tweed known Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
unto us, with all its “sheltered places, Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, bosoms, nooks, and bays," from DruThy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, melzier to the Trows, ay, and farther Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, too ; and who, now that poor Sandy In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Givan is no more, can beat us on that Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds,
our beloved water ? Alas, poor Givan! Thy coral clasps, and amber studs, -And sweet Walton-Hall, art thou All these in me no means can move too silent? But the kind hearts that To come to thee, and be thy Love. beat there are happy still, although for
a tíme removed from the murmurs of once more, when, to the tones of that that little fountain-well. The Ciga- matchless violin, (matchless in the rium is smokeless now and desolate, hands of our dear S. B.) we shall sing and the beautiful leopard curtains together, as of yore, shade windows now that look not out
" Then gie's your hand, my trusty fier, upon the woods of Fleurs. Yet we do
And surely I'll gie mine, not despair, before our locks are thin, And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet to see our good friends seated there For auld langsyne.”
I sat last Sunday evening,
Then the lark dropt down to his mate, From sun-set even till night,
By her nest on the dewy ground; At the open casement, watching
And the stir of human life The day's departing light.
Died away to a distant sound. Such hours to me are holy,
All sounds died away_The light laugh, Holier than tongue can tell —
The far footstep, the merry call, They fall on my heart like dew
To such stillness, the pulse of one's heart On the drooping heather bell.
Might have echo'd a rose leaf's fall. The sun had shone bright all day
And, by little and little, the darkness His setting was brighter still ;
Waved wider its sable wings, But there sprang up a lovely air
Till the nearest objects, and largest, "As he dropt down the western hill. Became shapeless, confused things, The fields and lanes were swarming
And, at last, all was dark-Then I felt With holy-day folks in their best ;
A cold sadness steal over my heart, Released from their six days' cares,
And I said to myself, " Such is life By the seventh day's peace and rest.
So its hopes and its pleasures depart.” I heard the light-hearted laugh,
And when night comes, the dark nightof age, The trampling of many feet ;
What remaineth beneath the sun, I saw them go merrily by,
Of all that was lovely and loved, And to me the sight was sweet.
Of all we have learnt and done? There's a sacred, soothing sweetness,
When the eye waxeth dim, and the car A pervading spirit of bliss,
To sweet music grows dull and cold, Peculiar from all other times,
And the fancy burns low, and the heartIn a Sabbath eve like this.
Oh, Heaven ! can the heart grow old ? Methinks, though I knew not the day, Then, what remaineth of life, Nor beheld those glad faces, yet all
But the lees with bitterness fraught ? Would tell me that nature was keeping
What then-But I check'd as it rose, Some solemn festival.
And rebuked that weak, wicked thought. The steer and the steed, in their pastures, And I lifted mine eyes up, and, lo! Lie down with a look of peace,
An answer was written on high, As if they knew 'twas commanded, By the finger of God himself,
That this day their labours should cease. In the depths of the dark blue sky. The lark's vesper song is more thrilling, There appear'd a sign in the east; As he mounts to bid Heaven good night;
A bright, beautiful, fixed star, The brook “ sings” a quieter - tune;"
And I look'd on its steady light The sun sets in lovelier light.
Till the evil thoughts fled afar. The grass, the green leaves, and the flowers, And the lesser lights of Heaven Are tinged with more exquisite hues ;
Shone out, with their pale soft rays, More odorous incense from cut them Like the calm, unearthly comforts Steams up with the evening dews.
Of a good man's latter days. So I sat last Sunday evening,
And there came up a sweet perfume Musing on all these things,
From the unseen flowers below, With that quiet gladness of spirit,
Like the savour of virtuous deeds, No thought of this world brings.
Of deeds done long ago. I watch'd the departing glory
Like the mem'ry of well-spent time,
Of things that were holy and dear,
In the Lord's faith and fear."
From my soul, and my heart felt light,
With peaceful thoughts that night.
ΧΡΗ ΔΕΝ ΣΥΜΠΟΣΙΩ ΚΥΛΙΚΩΝ ΠΕΡΙΝΙΣΣΟΜΕΝΑΩΝ
PHOC. ap. Ath.
C. N. ap. Ambr.
SCENE I.-The Chaldee Closet.
Enter North and Mr AMBROSE.
I hope, my dear sir, you will not be offended; but I cannot conceal my delight in seeing you lighten my door again, after two months' absence. God bless you, sir, it does my heart good to see you so strong, so fresh, so ruddy. I feared this wet autumn might have been too much for you in the country. But Heaven be praised-Heaven be praised-here you are again, my gracious sir! What can I do for you -What will you eat ? - What will you drink 1-0h dear ; let me stir the fire; the poker is too heavy for you.
Too heavy !-Devil a bit. Why, Ambrose, I have been in training, out at Mr Hogg's, you know. Zounds, I could fell a buffalo. Well, Ambrose, how
goes the world?
No reason to complain, sir. Oysters never were better; and the tap runs clear as amber. Let me hang up your crutch, my dear sir. There now, I am happy. The house looks like itself, now. Goodness me, the padding has had a new cover ! But the wood-work has seen service.
That it has, Ambrose. Why, you rogue, I got a three-pronged fork fastened to the end on't, and I used it as a lister.
A lister, sir ?I ask your pardon.
Ay, a lister. I smacked it more than once into the side of a salmon; but the water has been so drumly, that Sandy Ballantyne himself could do little or nothing.
Nothing surprises me now, sir, that you do. We have a pretty pheasant in the larder. Shall I venture to roast him for your honour?
At nine o'clock I expect a few friends ; so add a stubble-goose, some kidneys, and hodge-podge; for the night is chilly; and a delicate stomach like mine, Ambrose, requires coaxing. Glenlivet. Here, sir, is your accustomed caulker.
(North drinks, while Mr AMBROSE keeps looking upon him with
a smile of delighted deference, and exit.)
NORTH, (sohus.) What paper have we here ?- Morning Chronicle. Copyright sold for L.40,000. À lie.-Let me see; any little traitorous copy of bad verses ? Not one. Tommy Moore and Jack Bowring are busy otherwise. Poor occupation for gentlemen, sneering at Church and King. “ That wretched creature, Ballasteros !” Nay, nay, this wont do; I am getting drowsy.-Snores.)
Enter Mr AMBROSE. A sound of feet in the lobby. Mr Tickler, sir—Mr Mullion-and a strange gentleman. Beg your pardon, gentlemen ; tread softly. HE SLEEPS. Bonus dormitat Homerus.
Wonderful city. Modern Athens indeed. Never heard a more apt quotation.
TICKLER, (slap-bang on North's shoulder.) Awake, arise, or be for ever fallen! Mullion, shake him by the collar ; or a slight kick on the shins. Awake, Samson ; the Philistines are upon thee ! (North yawns ; stretches himself ; sits erect; stares about him ; rises
and bows.) Capital subject, faith, for Wilkie. A choice bit. Odds safe us, what a head ! Gie's your haun, my man. Hooly, hooly ; your nieve's like a vice. You deevil, you hae jirted the bluid frae my finger-ends.
Mr Tickler, you have not introduced me to the young gentleman.
Young gentleman--happy to take you by the hand. I hope you have no objection to smoking.
I have no objections to anything; but I shall hardly be on an equal footing with you Sons of the Mist.
NORTH, (to TICKLER.)
Shew him in. Hope it is not that cursed consignment of cotton from Man. chester-raw-twist, and The English OPIUM-EATER !-Huzza ! huzza !
(Three hearty cheers.)
Enter The ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER and THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.
THE SHEPHERD. Thank ye, lads; that's me your cheering. Haud your hauns, ye hallana shakers, or my drums will split. Sit down, sit down; my kite's as toom as the Cornal's head. I've had nae four-hours, and only a chack wi' Tam Grieve, as I came through Peebles. You'll hae ordered supper, Mr North?
My dear late English Opium-Eater, this is an unexpected, unhoped for happiness. I thought you had been in Constantinople.
THE OPIUM-EATER. You had no reason whatever for any such thought. No doubt I might have been at Constantinople and I wish that I had been but I have not been ; and I am of opinion that you have not been there since we last parted, any more than myself. Have you, sir ?
THE SHEPHERD. I dinna ken, sir, where you hae been ; but, hech, sirs, yon bit Opium Tract's a desperate interesting confession. It's perfectly dreadfu', yon pouring in upon you o oriental imagery. But nae wunner. Sax thousand draps o' lowdnam! It's as muckle, I fancy, as a bottle o' whusky. I tried the experiment mysel, after reading the wee wud wicked wark, wi' five hunner draps, and I couped ower, and continued in ae snore frae Monday night till Friday morning. But I had naething to confess; naething at least that wad gang into words; for it was a week-lang, dull, dim dwawm o' the mind, with a kind o' soun' bumıning in my lugs ; and clouds, clouds, clouds hovering round and round; and things o’ sight, no made for the sight; and an awfu' smell, like the rotten sea ; and a confusion between the right hand and the left ; and events o' auld lang syne, like the torments o' the present hour, wi' naething to mark onything by; and doubts o' being quick or dead ; and something rouch, rouch, like the fleece o' a ram, and motion as of an everlasting earthquake ; and nae remembrance o’ my ain christian name; and a dismal thought that I was converted into a quadruped cretur, wi' four feet; and a sair drowth, ay sook, sooking awa' at empty win'; and the lift doukin' down to smoor me ; and the moon within half a yarů o' my nose ; but no just like the moon either. O Lord safe us ! I'm a' grewing to think o't; but how could I Confess ? for the sounds and the sights were baith shadows; and whare are the words for expressing the distractions o' the immaterial sowl drowning in matter, and warstling wi' unknown power to get ance mair a steady footing on the greensward o' the waking world?
Hear till him-hear till him. Ma faith, that's equal to the best bit in a'the Confessions.
Haud your tongue, you sumph ; it's nae sic things. Mr Opium-Eater, I used ay to admire you, years sin' syne; and never doubted you wad come out wi’ some wark, ae day or ither, that wad gar the Gawpus glower.
Gar the Gapus glower !--Pray, who is the Gapus ?
The public, sir ; the public is the Gawpus. But what for are you sae metapheesical, man? There's just nae sense ava in metapheesics ; they're a' clean
But how's Wudsworth?
I have not seen him since half past two o'clock on the 17th of September. As far as I could judge from a transitory interview, he was in good health and spirits ; and, I think, fatter than he has been for some years. “ Though that's not much."
You lakers are clever chields ; I'll never deny that; but you are a conceited, upsetting set, ane and a' o' you. Great yegotists; and Wudsworth the warst o’ye a' ; för he'll alloo nae merit to ony leevin cretur but himsel. He's a triflin'cretur in yon Excursion; there's some bonny spats here and there; but nae reader can thole aboon a dozen pages o't at a screed, without whumling ower on his seat. Wudsworth will never be popular. Naebody can get his blank poems aff by heart; they're ower wordy and ower windy, tak my word for't. Shackspear will sae as muckle in four lines, as Wudsworth will say
It is a pity that our great living poets cannot be more lavish of their praise to each other.
Me no lavish o' praise ? I think your friend a great man—but
I wish, my dear Shepherd, that you would follow Mr Wordsworth's example, and confine yourself to poetry. Oh! for another Queen's Wake.
I'll no confine myself to poetry for ony man. Neither does he. It's only the other day that he published a Guide to the Lakes,” and he might as well have called it a Treatise on Church Music. And then his prose work about Spain is no half as gude as a leading paragraph in Jamie Ballantyne's Journal. The sense is waur, and sae is the wording—and yet sae proud and sae pompous, as gin nane kent about peace and war but himsel, as gin he could fecht a campaign better than Wellington, and negotiate wi' foreign