WANTON drole, whose harmless play
Beguiles the rustic's closing day,
When drawn the evening fire about.
Sit aged Crone and thoughtless Lout,
And child upon his three-foot stool.
Waiting till his supper cool;
And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose.
As bright the blazing faggot glows,
Who, bending to the friendly light,
Plies her task with busy sleight;
Come, shew thy tricks and sportive graces
Thus circled round with merry faces.
Backward coiled, and crouching low,
With glaring eye-balls watch thy foe,
The housewife's spindle whirling round,
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring
Upon the futile, faithless thing.
Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill,
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As oft beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till, from thy centre starting far,
Thou sidelong rear'st, with tail in air,
Erected stiff, and gait awry,
Like Madam in her tantrums high;
Though ne'er a Madam of them all
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,
More varied trick and whim displays,
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze.
By tears thou giv'st thy words to be,
When struggling feelings have no name !-
Return, return! By thee upborne,
And by a yet unvanquished will,
The malice of my fate I'll scorn,-
In woe triumphant still.
Literary Gazette.
BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.
WHEN eve is purpling cliff and cave,
Thoughts of the heart, how soft
Not softer on the western wave
The golden lines of sunset glow.
Then all, by chance or fate removed,
Like spirits crowd upon the eye;
The few we liked-the one we loved!
And the whole heart is memory.
And life is like a fading flower,
Its beauty dying as we gaze;
Yet as the shadows round us lour,
Heaven pours above a brighter blaze.
When morning sheds its gorgeous dye,
Our hope, our heart, to earth is given;
But dark and lonely is the eye
That turns not, at its eve, to heaven.
By tears thou giv'st thy words to be,
When struggling feelings have no name !—
Return, return! By thee upborne,
And by a yet unvanquished will,
The malice of my fate I'll scorn,-
In woe triumphant still.
Literary Gazette.
BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.
WHEN eve is purpling cliff and cave,
Thoughts of the heart, how soft ye flow!
Not softer on the western wave
The golden lines of sunset glow.
Then all, by chance or fate removed,
Like spirits crowd upon the eye;
The few we liked the one we loved!
And the whole heart is memory.
And life is like a fading flower,
Its beauty dying as we gaze;
Yet as the shadows round us lour,
Heaven pours above a brighter blaze.
When morning sheds its gorgeous dye,
Our hope, our heart, to earth is given;
But dark and lonely is the eye
That turns not, at its eve, to heaven.
WANTON drole, whose harmless play
Beguiles the rustic's closing day,
When drawn the evening fire about,
Sit aged Crone and thoughtless Lout,
And child upon his three-foot stool,
Waiting till his supper cool;
And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose,
As bright the blazing faggot glows,
Who, bending to the friendly light,
Plies her task with busy sleight;
Come, shew thy tricks and sportive graces
Thus circled round with merry faces.
Backward coiled, and crouching low,
With glaring eye-balls watch thy foe,
The housewife's spindle whirling round,
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring
Upon the futile, faithless thing.
Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill,
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As oft beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till, from thy centre starting far,
Thou sidelong rear'st, with tail in air,
Erected stiff, and gait awry,
Like Madam in her tantrums high;
Though ne'er a Madam of them all
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,
More varied trick and whim displays,
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze.
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