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For all that clear'd the crop, or tilld the ground,
Yet Plenty reigns, and from her boundless hoard,
Here once a year Distinction low'rs its crest,
Such were the days-of days long past I sing,
E'en Giles, for all his cares and watchings past, And all his contests with the wintry blast, Claims a full share of that sweet praise bestowd By gazing neighbours, when along the road, Or village green, his curly-coated throng Suspends the chorus of the spinner's song; When admiration's unaffected grace Lisps from the tongue, and beams in ev'ry face: Delightful moments !--sunshine, health, and joy, Play round, and cheer the elevated boy! “ Another spring !” his heart exulting cries ; “ Another year! with promis'd blessings rise!"
THE WIDOW TO HER HOUR-GLASB.
Come, friend, I'll turn thee up again :
Since thou hast stood
In frame of wood,
And, when my husband died.
Its conic crown
Still sliding down,
And mingling joy and pain.
Though silent thou,
And jog along thy destin'd way:
Thou get'st a holiday.
Come, lovely May !
Thy lengthen'd day Shall gild once more my native plain ; Curl inward here, sweet Woodbine flower ;-Companion of the lonely hour,
I'll turn thee up again.
A SPRING, O'erhung with many a flower,
The grey sand dancing in its bed, Embank'd beneath a hawthorn bower, Sent forth its waters near my
head: A rosy lass approach'd my view;
I caught her blue eye's modest beam : The stranger nodded “how d'ye do!”
And leap'd across the infant stream. The water heedless pass'd away:
With me her glowing image stay'd : I strove, from that auspicious day,
To meet and bless the lovely maid. I met her where beneath our feet
Through downy moss the wild thyme grew; Nor moss elastic, flow'rs though sweet,
Match'd Hannah's cheek of rosy hue. I met her where the dark woods wave,
And shaded verdure skirts the plain ;. And when the pale moon rising gave
New glories to her clouded train. From her sweet cot upon the moor
Our plighted vows to heaven are flown; Truth made me welcome at her door,
Thy favourite bird is soaring still :
My Lucy, haste thee o'er the dale;
Yet, so lightly on its way,
The pathway flowers that bending meet,
And give the meads their yellow hue,
Why then, Lucy, why delay?
Since there thy smiles, my charming maid,
Are with unfeigned rapture seen,
Here's my hand, come, come away ;
A promise too my Lucy made,
(And shall my heart its claim resign?)
Hark'ye, Lucy, this is May;
In our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood,
I am mistress, no mother have I;
And kind is my lover hard by;
Both woodmen, my father and Joe;
From my basket at noon they expect their supply,
And with joy from my threshold I spring; For the woodlands I love, and the oaks waving high,
And echo that sings as I sing.
As I call the dear name of my Joe;
And my heart leaps to hear the-Hallo.
Simple flowers of the grove, little birds live at ease,
I wish not to wander from you; I'll still dwell beneath the deep roar of your trees,
For I know that my Joe will be true.
Are charms that I'll never forego;
Will remember the Woodland Hallo.
LOVE OF THE COUNTRY.
Welcome silence ! welcome peace !
O most welcome, holy shade !
My heart and soul for quiet made.
While rapture's gushing tears descend,
Is moral Truth's unerring friend.
I would not for a world of gold
That Nature's lovely face should tire ;
Pure source of intellectual fire!
Unquicken'd midst the world's rude strife,