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What, though nor stone, nor brick the walls sustain,
Nor slate, nor tile, avert the falling rain;
Content and happiness may there reside,
Nor breathe one sigh for seats of costly pride.
His little field th' industrious peasant plants,
Richly supplying all his domestic wants.

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Whate'er of fruits the British islands know,
There bloom in spring, in fervid summer glow;
And though, Britannia, climates mild as thine,
Not India's spices boast, nor Gallic wine;
Though here no fig, nor priz'd anana grows,
Nor golden orange in thy vineyards glows;
Nor that sweet cane-the curse of many an isle
Nor gold, nor diamonds sleep beneath thy soil;

Yet, thy own wealth attracts the richest stores, · With power magnetic, to thy favour'd shores.

And chief thy flocks, that crown each mountain's brow,
And deck each vale, from these thy riches flow;
These meet my view, innumerous, grazing wide,
Their unshorn lambs, yet sporting by their side,
Some destin'd soon, by unrelenting fate,
To smoke on tables of the rich and great;
But those of finest shape, and noblest size,
Again must view the vernal year arise,
Spread their young progeny around the land,
And yield their fleeces to the shearer's hand.
These eyes have seen when ant-hills cloth'd yon fields,
And gorse where clover now its fragrance yields,
And swells its cluster'd flowers; behold how tall
The stem uprise, and waving wait their fall!

Hence fragrant ricks and glowing cones shall rise,
Reserv'd till vegetation shrinks and dies;
Till yon fair spotted tribes, that range the dale,
And frequent wait the ruddy milk-maid's pail,
View the gay plains where verdure wont to glow,
Incas'd in ice, or buried deep in snow.

Benignant clime! here autumn's choicest store
Fails not, while winter's latest tempests roar!
Far other scenes proclaim his tyrant reign,
Where chill Siberia bounds the northern main,
All powers of life and vegetation filed,
The fields repose as nature's self lay dead,
The earth to rock, the sea to crystal turns,
Till the bright sun with tropic splendor burns.

Yet, sure yon patient, woolly tribes demand The generous care of man's providing hand; Unless for them his shivering limbs must bear Th' enfeebling rigours of th’ inclement year; And Ceres, still thy fostering care supplies Abundant food when wintry glooms arise.

But chief, when Phæbus' vivifying ray
Glows on the painted scenes of rosy May, -
Where'er thy hand its plastic power applies,
Herbs, flowers, and fruits in rich profusion rise;
Vanish the glooms that mark the steril soil,
The rocks relent, the wildest deserts smile.


“ Let mirth go on, let pleasure know no pause,

But fill up ev'ry minute of this day." Rowe.

EPITOME of human life,

Behold a village fair, Contrast of jollity and strife,

Of merriment and care.

Here crockery spreads the verdant ground,

Pans, plates, and dishes see; Flower-pots and pitchers, crackt and sound,

And sets of cups for tea.

Of pedlars' stalls, arrang'u in rows, .

How glittering is the ware! 'Gay buckles, necklaces, and bows,

And top-knots for the fair.

Of cakes and spice-nuts shall I sing,

All tempting to behold?
Of gingerbread, each queen and king

Their noses tipt with gold.

Of stalls for children fraught with bliss,

Where round you hear them prattle; Horses for master, dolls for miss,

And for the babe a rattle.

Of many a ballad-singing whine,

The unharmonious sound;
And blind musicians, that combine

To deafen all around.

Wild beasts are here, and screaming birds,

And puppet-shows, and apes; Mountebanks, free of drugs and words,

And cheats in various shapes.

Here they break heads, and there shake hands,

Now blood, now liquor flows; Now friendly are the motley bands,

Presto be gone they're foes.

Here am'rous youths, with each a mate,

Proffer gay toys or gloves ;
And, whisp'ring as they go, relate

The secret of their loves.

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A Kitchen Conversation, in a retired Country Village.
“ Non possidentem multa vocaveris i
Recte beatum; rectius occupat

Nomen beati, qui deorum

Muneribus sapienter uti,

Duramque callet pauperiem pati*.” Hor. ...... The weather is wet, and I have nothing to relate of the present; I shall therefore go back a little, in order to retail a kitchen conversation, wherein I made a conspicuous figure at our last washing time. Miss P- usually irons her own small linen, I do the like; and sometimes upon these occasions we are quite a large party, for there is a chairwoman besides the servants. This person, who is called Mrs. H-, is always well provided with subjects of conversation, as she knows every thing that passes in the parish. She is extremely communicative, and very free of her semarks. Her chief topic, at the time I hint at, was the dearness of provisions, the scarcity of money, the hard:ships of the labouring poor, on which she descanted in

Believe not those that lands possess,

And shining heaps of useless ore,
The only lords of happiness;

But rather those that know

For what kind fates bestow,
And have the art to use the store ;
That have the gen'rous skill to bear
The hated weight of poverty.

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