'Twas long before the customers were suited to their mind,

When Betty, screaming, came down stairs, "The wine is left behind!" "Good lack!" quoth he, "yet bring it me, my leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword, when I do exercise."

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul !) had two stone bottles found,
To hold the liquor that she loved, and keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curling ear, through which the belt he drew,
And hung a bottle on each side, to make his balance true.
Then over all, that he might be equipped from top to toe,
His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, he manfully did throw.

Now see him mounted once again upon his nimble steed,
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones with caution and good heed.
But, finding soon a smoother road beneath his well-shod feet,
The snorting beast began to trot-which galled him in his seat.
"So, fair and softly, John!" he cried, but John he cried in vain :
That trot became a gallop soon, in spite of curb and rein.

So, stooping down, as needs he must who cannot sit upright,

He grasped the mane with both his hands, and eke with all his might.
His horse, which never in that sort had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got did wonder more and more.
Away went Gilpin, neck or nought! away went hat and wig!
He little dreamt, when he set out, of running such a rig.

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, like streamer long and gay;
Till, loop and button failing both, at last it flew away.
Then might all people well discern the bottles he had slung;
A bottle swinging at each side, as hath been said or sung.
The dogs did bark, the children screamed, up flew the windows all;
And every soul cried out, "Well done!" as loud as he could bawl.

Away went Gilpin-who but he? His fame soon spread around;
"He carries weight! he rides a race! 'Tis for a thousand pound !”
And still, as fast as he drew near, 'twas wonderful to view
How in a trice the turnpike-men their gates wide open threw.
And now, as he went bowing down his reeking head full low,
The bottles twain behind his back were shattered at a blow.
Down ran the wine into the road, most piteous to be seen,
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke as they had basted been.
But still he seemed to carry weight, with leathern girdle braced;
For all might see the bottle-necks still dangling at his waist.

Thus, all through merry Islington, these gambols he did play,
Until he came unto the Wash of Edmonton so gay.

And there he threw the Wash about on both sides of the way,
Just like unto a trundling mop, or a wild goose at play.

At Edmonton his loving wife from balcony espied

Her tender husband—wondering much to see how he did ride!
"Stop, stop, John Gilpin !—Here's the house," they all at once did cry;
"The dinner waits, and we are tired." Said Gilpin "So am I!”

But yet his horse was not a whit inclined to tarry there;
For why? his owner had a house full ten miles off, at Ware.
So like an arrow swift he flew, shot by an archer strong;
So did he fly-which brings me to the middle of my song.

Away went Gilpin out of breath, and sore against his will,
Till at his friend the calender's his horse at last stood still.
The calender, amazed to see his neighbour in such trim,
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, and thus accosted him :
"What news? what news? your tidings tell-tell me you must and shall-
Say why bareheaded you are come, or why you come at all ?”
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, and loved a timely joke;
And thus unto the calender in merry guise he spoke :

"I came because your horse would come; and, if I well forebode,
My hat and wig will soon be here they are upon the road."

The calender, right glad to find his friend in merry pin,

Returned him not a single word, but to the house went in.

Whence straight he came with hat and wig; a wig that flowed behind,

A hat not much the worse for wear,-each comely in its kind.

He held them up, and in his turn thus showed his ready wit,

My head is twice as big as yours, they therefore needs must fit.

But let me scrape the dirt away that hangs upon your face;
And stop and eat, for well you may be in a hungry case."
Said John, "It is my wedding-day, and all the world would stare
If wife should dine at Edmonton, and I should dine at Ware."
So turning to his horse, he said, "I am in haste to dine;
'Twas for your pleasure you came here, you shall go back for mine."

Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! for which he paid full dear :
For, while he spake, a braying ass did sing most loud and clear;
Whereat his horse did snort, as he had heard a lion roar,
And galloped off with all his might, as he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away went Gilpin's hat and wig:
He lost them sooner than at first; for why ?-they were too big.
Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw her husband posting down
Into the country far away, she pulled out half-a-crown ;

And thus unto the youth she said that drove them to the Bell,

"This shall be yours when you bring back my husband safe and well.”
The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain !
Whom in a trice he tried to stop, by catching at his rein;
But, not performing what he meant, and gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighted more, and made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin, and away went post-boy at his heels,

The post-boy's horse right glad to miss the lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the road, thus seeing Gilpin fly,

With post-boy scampering in the rear, they raised the hue and cry :—
"Stop thief! stop thief!. -a highwayman!" not one of them was mute:
And all and each that passed that way, did join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike gates again flew open in short space;
The tollmen thinking as before that Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did, and won it too, for he got first to town;
Nor stopped till where he had got up he did again get down.
-Now let us sing, Long live the King, and Gilpin, long live he;
And, when he next doth ride abroad, may I be there to see!

28.-CUMNOR HALL.-Mickle.

The dews of summer night did fall, the moon (sweet regent of the sky)
Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall, and many an oak that grew thereby.
Now nought was heard beneath the skies; the sounds of busy life were still,
Save an unhappy Lady's sighs, that issued from that lonely pile.

"Leicester," she cried, "is this thy love that thou so oft hast sworn to me,
To leave me in this lonely grove, immured in shameful privacy?
No more thou com'st, with lover's speed, thy once-beloved bride to see ;
But, be she alive, or be she dead, I fear, stern Earl! 's the same to thee.
Not such the usage I received when happy in my father's hall;
No faithless husband then me grieved, no chilling fears did me appal.
I rose up with the cheerful morn, no lark so blithe, no flower so gay;
And, like the bird that haunts the thorn, so merrily sung the live-long day.
Say that my beauty is but small,―among court-ladies all despised!
Why didst thou rend it from that hall, where, scornful Earl, it well was
prized?

And when you first to me made suit, how fair I was, you oft would say! And, proud of conquest, plucked the fruit, then left the blossom to decay! Yes! now neglected and despised, the rose is pale, the lily's dead;

But he that once their charms so prized, is, sure, the cause those charms are fled.

For know, when sickening grief doth prey, and tender love's repaid with scorn,

The sweetest beauty will decay: what floweret can endure the storm?
At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne, where every lady's passing rare;
The eastern flowers, that shame the sun, are not so glowing, not so fair.
Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds where roses and where lilies vie,
To seek a primrose-whose pale shades must sicken when those gauds
are by?

'Mong rural beauties I was one; among the fields, wild flowers are fair; Some country swain might me have won, and thought my beauty passing

rare.

But, Leicester (or I much am wrong,) it is not beauty lures thy vows;
Rather Ambition's gilded crown makes thee forget thy humble spouse.
Then, Leicester, why, again I plead (the injured surely may repine),
Why didst thou wed a country maid, when some fair princess might be
thine?

Why didst thou praise my humble charms, and, oh! then leave them to decay?

Why didst thou win me to thine arms, then leave-to mourn the livelong day?

The village maidens of the plain salute me lowly as they go:
Envious they mark my silken train, nor think a countess can have woe.
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 winked aside, and seemed to say, 'Countess, prepare-thy end is

near !'

And now, while happy peasants sleep, here sit I 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 strikes my ear;
And many a boding seems to say, 'Countess, prepare-thy end is near.'"

Thus sore and sad that lady grieved in Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear ; Full many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, and let fall many a bitter tear. And ere the dawn of day appeared, 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 aërial voice was heard to call; And thrice the raven flapped his wing around the towers of Cumnor Hall. The mastiff howled at village door, the oaks were shattered 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 oft hath sighed, and pensive wept the Countess' fall; As wandering onward they've espied the haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.

24. THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.-Hood.

'Twas in the prime of summer time, an evening calm and cool,-
And four-and-twenty happy boys came bounding out of school:
There were some that ran, and some that leapt like troutlets in a pool.
Away they sped with gamesome minds, and souls untouched by sin;
To a level mead they came, and there they drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they coursed about, and shouted as they ran,-
Turning to mirth all things of earth, as only boyhood can:
But the Usher sat remote from all—a melancholy man!

His hat was off, his vest apart, to catch heaven's blessèd breeze;
For a burning thought was in his brow, and his bosom ill at ease:

So he leaned his head on his hands, and read the book between his knees!

Leaf after leaf, he turned it o'er, nor ever glanced aside,

For the peace of his soul he read that book in the golden eventide :
Much study had made him very lean, and pale, and leaden-eyed.

At last he shut the ponderous tome, with a fast and fervent grasp
He strained the dusky covers close, and fixed the brazen hasp:
"Oh heaven! could I so close my mind, and clasp it with a clasp!"
Then, leaping on his feet upright, some moody turns he took,—
Now up the mead, then down the mead, and past a shady nook,—
And, lo! he saw a little boy that pored upon a book!