Yet urged along, and proudly loath to yield,
He strives to join his fellows of the field;
Till long-contending nature droops at last,
Declining health rejects his poor repast,
His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees,
And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease.

Yet grant them health, 'tis not for us to tell,
Though the head droops not, that the heart is well;
Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare,
Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share?
Oh! trifle not with wants you cannot feel,
Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal;
Homely not wholesome, plain not plenteous, such
As you who praise would never deign to touch.
Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease,

Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please,
Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share,
Go look within, and ask if peace be there:
If peace be his-that drooping, weary sire,
Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire;
Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand
Turns on the wretched hearth the expiring brand.

A BETROTHED PAIR IN HUMBLE LIFE. Yes, there are real mourners; I have seen A fair sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene; Attention through the day her duties claim'd, And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd; Neatly she dress'd, nor vainly seem'd to expect Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect; But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep, She sought her place to meditate and weep: Then to her mind was all the past display'd, That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid; For then she thought on one regretted youth, Her tender trust, and his unquestion'd truth; In every place she wander'd where they'd been, And sadly-sacred held the parting scene; Where last for sea he took his leave--that place With double interest would she nightly trace; For long the courtship was, and he would say, Each time he sail'd, "This once, and then the day;" Yet prudence tarried, but when last he went,

He drew from pitying love a full consent.

Happy he sail'd, and great the care she took
That he should softly sleep, and smartly look;
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort men at sea can know,
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow;
For he to Greenland sail'd, and much she told
How he should guard against the climate's cold,
Yet saw not danger, dangers he'd withstood,
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood.

His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek,
And he, too, smiled, but seldom would he speak ;
For now he found the danger, felt the pain,
With grievous symptoms he could not explain.

He call'd his friend, and prefaced with a sigh
A lover's message-"Thomas, I must die;
Would I could see my Sally, and could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,
And gazing go! if not, this trifle take,
And say, till death I wore it for her sake.
Yes, I must die-blow on, sweet breeze, blow on!
Give me one look before my life be gone;
Oh, give me that! and let me not despair-
One last fond look-and now repeat the prayer."
He had his wish, had more. I will not paint
The lovers' meeting: she beheld him faint-
With tender fears she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said,
"Yes, I must die"-and hope for ever fled.

Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts meantime
Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime,
To her he came to die, and every day

She took some portion of the dread away;

With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read,

Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head;
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer,
Apart she sigh'd, alone she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.
One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think,
Yet said not so-"Perhaps he will not sink."
A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,
A sudden vigor in his voice was heard;
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;
Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favorite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall
But she has treasured, and she loves them all.
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people-death has made them dear.

He named his friend, but then his hand she press'd,
And fondly whisper'd, "Thou must go to rest."

"I go," he said, but as he spoke she found

His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound;
Then gazed affrighted, but she caught a last,

A dying look of love, and all was past.

She placed a decent stone his grave above,

Neatly engraved, an offering of her love:

For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,

Awake alike to duty and the dead.

She would have grieved had friends presumed to spare The least assistance-'twas her proper care.

Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;
But if observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.

SONG OF THE DESERTED AND CRAZED MAIDEN.

Let me not have this gloomy view
About my room, around my bed;
But morning roses, wet with dew,

To cool my burning brows instead;
As flowers that once in Eden grew,
Let them their fragrant spirits shed,
And every day their sweets renew,
Till I, a fading flower, am dead.
Oh let the herbs I loved to rear

Give to my sense their perfumed breath!
Let them be placed about my bier,
And grace the gloomy house of death.
I'll have my grave beneath a hill,
Where only Lucy's self shall know,
Where runs the pure pellucid rill
Upon its gravelly bed below:
There violets on the borders blow,
And insects their soft light display,
Till, as the morning sunbeams glow,
The cold phosphoric fires decay.

That is the grave to Lucy shown;

The soil, a pure and silver sand;
The green cold moss above it grown,
Unpluck'd of all but maiden hand.
In virgin earth, till then unturn'd,

There let my maiden form be laid;
Nor let my changed clay be spurn'd,

Nor for new guest that bed be made.
There will the lark, the lamb, in sport,
In air, on earth, securely play:
And Lucy to my grave resort,

As innocent, but not so gay.

I will not have the churchyard ground
With bones all black and ugly grown,
To press my shivering body round,
Or on my wasted limbs be thrown.

With ribs and skulls I will not sleep,
In clammy beds of cold blue clay,
Through which the ringed earthworms creep,
And on the shrouded bosom prey.
I will not have the bell proclaim

When those sad marriage rites begin,

And boys, without regard or shame,

Press the vile mouldering masses in.

Say not, it is beneath my care—

I cannot these cold truths allow;
These thoughts may not afflict me there,
But oh! they vex and tease me now!
Raise not a turf, nor set a stone,

That man a maiden's grave may trace,
But thou, my Lucy, come alone,
And let affection find the place!

Oh! take me from a world I hate,
Men cruel, selfish, sensual, cold;
And, in some pure and blessed state,
Let me my sister minds behold:
From gross and sordid views refined,
Our heaven of spotless love to share,
For only generous souls design'd,

And not a man to meet me there.1

MERCY SOUGHT AND FOUND.

Pilgrim, burden'd with thy sin,
Come the way to Zion's gate;
There, till mercy let thee in,

Knock, and weep, and watch, and wait.
Knock-he knows the sinner's cry;

Weep-he loves the mourner's tears;

Watch-for saving grace is nigh;

Wait-till heavenly light appears.

Hark! it is the Bridegroom's voice,
"Welcome, pilgrim, to thy rest;"
Now, within the gate, rejoice,

Safe, and seal'd, and bought, and blest.
Safe-from all the lures of vice;

Seal'd-by signs the chosen know;
Bought by love, and life the price;
Blest the mighty debt to owe.

Holy pilgrim! what for thee

In a world like this remain?

From thy guarded breast shall flee

Fear, and shame, and doubt, and pain.
Fear-the hope of heaven shall fly;
Shame from glory's view retire;

Doubt-in certain rapture die;

Pain-in endless bliss expire.

"The characters of the two sisters are drawn with infinite skill and minuteness, and their whole story narrated with great feeling and beauty. The wanderings of Jane's reason are represented in a very affecting manner. The concluding stanzas appear to us to be eminently beautiful, and make us regret that Mr. Crabbe should have indulged us so seldom with those higher lyrical effusions."-JEFFREY.

HIS LETTER TO EDMUND BURKE.1

SIR-I am sensible that I need even your talents to apologize for the freedom I now take; but I have a plea which, however simply urged, will, with a mind like yours, sir, procure me pardon: I am one of those outcasts on the world who are without a friend, without employment, and without bread.

Pardon me a short preface. I had a partial father, who gave me a better education than his broken fortune would have allowed; and a better than was necessary, as he could give me that only. I was designed for the profession of physic; but, not having wherewithal to complete the requisite studies, the design but served to convince me of a parent's affection, and the error it had occasioned. In April last I came to London, with three pounds, and flattered myself this would be sufficient to supply me with the common necessaries of life till my abilities should procure me more; of these I had the highest opinion, and a poetical vanity contributed to my delusion. I knew little of the world, and had read books only. I wrote, and fancied perfection in my compositions; when I wanted bread, they promised me affluence, and soothed me with dreams of reputation, whilst my appearance subjected me to contempt. Time, reflection, and want have showed me my mistake. I see my trifles in that which I think the true light; and, whilst I deem them such, have yet the opinion that holds them superior to the common run of poetical publications.

I had some knowledge of the late Mr. Nassau, the brother of Lord Rochford; in consequence of which, I asked his lordship's permission to inscribe my little work to him. Knowing it to be free from all political allusions and personal abuse, it was no very material point to me to whom it was dedicated. His lordship thought it none to him, and obligingly consented to my request.

I was told that a subscription would be the more profitable method for me, and therefore endeavored to circulate copies of the enclosed proposals.

I am afraid, sir, I disgust you with this very dull believe me punished in the misery that occasions it.

narration, but You will con

"Mr. Crabbe's journal of his London life, extending over a period of three months, is one of the most affecting documents which ever lent an interest to biography. Arriving in the metropolis in the beginning of 1800, without money, friends, or introductions, he rapidly sank into penury and suffering. His landlord threatened him, and hunger and a jail already stared him in the face. In this emergency, he ventured to solicit the notice of three individuals, eminent for station and influence. He applied to Lord North, Lord Shelburne, and Lord Thurlow, but without success. In a happy moment the name of Burke entered his mind, and he appealed to his sympathy in the following letter. The result is well known. In Burke the happy poet found not only a patron and a friend, but a sagacious adviser and an accomplished critic."-WILLMOTT.

"The tears stood in Crabbe's eyes, while he talked of Burke's kindness to him in his distress; and I remember he said-The night after I delivered my letter at his door, I was in such a state of agitation, that I walked Westminster bridge, backward and forward, until daylight.""-LOCKHART.