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Here as each season yields a different store,

Each season's stores in order ranged been; Apples with cabbage-net y-covered o'er, Galling full sore th' unmoneyed wight, are seen:

And goose-b’rie clad in livery red or green; And here of lovely dye, the catharine pear,

Fine pear! as lovely for thy juice, I ween: O may no wight e’er pennyless come there, Lest smit with ardent love he pine with hopeless


See! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound,

With thread so white in tempting posies ty’d, Scattering like blooming maid their glances round,

With pampered look draw little eyes aside;

And must be bought, though penury betide. The plumb all azure and the nut all brown,

And here each season do those cakes abide Whose honored names th' inventive city own, Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises


Admired Salopia! that with venial pride
Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient

Famed for her loyal cares in perils tried,

Her daughters lovely, and her striplings brave; Ah! midst the rest, may flowers adorn his

grave, Whose art did first these dulcet cates display!

A motive fair to Learning's imps he gave, Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray, Till Reason's morn arise, and light them on their way.


Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!

Ah, fields beloved in vain ! -
Where once my careless childhood strayed,

A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales that from ye blow
A momentary bliss bestow,

As, waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.
Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen

Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,

The paths of pleasure trace;
Who foremost now delight to cleave,
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave

The captive linnet which enthrall ?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle's speed,

Or urge the flying ball ?
While some, on urgent business bent,

Their murmuring labors ply 'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint

To sweeten liberty;
Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry;
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,

And snatch a fearful joy.
Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast : Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer, of vigor born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light,

That fly the approach of morn.
Alas! regardless of their doom,

The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,

Nor care beyond to-day;
Yet see, how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate,

On a Wistant Prospect of Eton College.
Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,

That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful Science still adores

Her Henry's holy shade ;
And ye that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights the expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among
Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver winding way:

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The Children in the Wood. Now ponder well, you parents dear,

The words which I shall write; A doleful story you shall hear,

In time brought forth to light: A gentleman of good account,

In Norfolk lived of late,
Whose wealth and riches did surmount

Most men of his estate.
Sore sick he was, and like to die,

No help then he could have;
His wife by him as sick did lie,

And both possessed one grave.
No love between these two was lost,

Each was to other kind;
In love they lived, in love they died,

And left two babes behind:
The one a fine and pretty boy,

Not passing three years old; The other a girl, more young than he,

And made in beauty's mould.
The father left his little son,

As plainly doth appear,
When he to perfect age should come,

Three hundred pounds a year -
And to his little daughter Jane

Five hundred pounds in gold, To be paid down on marriage-day,

Which might not be controlled ; But if the children chanced to die

Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possess their wealth,

For so the will did run. “Now, brother," said the dying man,

“Look to my children dear; Be good unto my boy and girl,

No friends else I have here; To God and you I do commend

My children, night and day; But little while, be sure, we have,

Within this world to stay. * You must be father and mother both,

And uncle, all in one; God knows what will become of them

When I am dead and gone.”

Lo! in the vale of years beneath

A grisly troop are seen, The painful family of death,

More hideous than their queen;
This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every laboring sinew strains,

Those in the deeper vitals rage:
Lo! poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,

And slow-consuming age.

To each his sufferings: all are men,

Condemned alike to groan; The tender for another's pain,

The unfeeling for his own.
Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,
Since sorrow never comes too late,

And happiness too swiftly flies?
Thought would destroy their paradise.
No more:-where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise !


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His barns were fired, his goods consumed,

His lands were barren made; His cattle died within the field,

And nothing with him stayed.

But now I see, most cruell hee,
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

And, in the voyage of Portugal,

Two of his sons did die; And, to conclude, himself was brought

To extreme misery.
He pawned and mortgaged all his land

Ere seven years came about;
And now, at length this wicked act

Did by this means come out:

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile,
And when thou wakest sweitly smile;
But smile not, as thy father did,
To cozen maids; nay, God forbid !
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire,
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
I can nae chuse, but ever will
Be luving to thy father stil:
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde,
My luve with him maun stil abyde:
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,
Mine hart can neir depart him frae.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe !

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But doe not, doe not, prettie mine,
To faynings fals thine hart incline;
Be loyal to thy luver trew,
And nevir change hir for a new;
If gude or faire, of hir have care,
For women's banning's wonderous sair.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine ; My babe and I'll together live, He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve; My babe and I right saft will ly, And quite forget man's cruelty.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth
That ever kist a woman's mouth!
I wish all maids be warned by mee,
Nevir to trust man's curtesy ;
For if we doe but chance to bow,
They'll use us than they care not how.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.


When he began to court my luve,
And with his sugred words to muve,
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire,
To me that time did not appeire:




Her Eyes are Wild.

Wuilst, around her lone ark sweeping,

Wailed the winds and waters wild, Her young cheeks all wan with weeping,

Danie clasped her sleeping child; And “ Alas,” cried she, “ my dearest,

What deep wrongs, what woes, are mine!
But nor wrongs nor woes thou fearest,

In that sinless rest of thine.
Faint the moonbeams break above thee,

And, within here, all is gloom;
But fast wrapt in arms that love thee,

Little reck'st thou of our doom.
Not the rude spray round thee flying,

Has e'en damped thy clustering hair,On thy purple mantlet lying,

O mine Innocent, my Fair! Yet, to thee were sorrow sorrow,

Thou would'st lend thy little ear,
And this heart of thine might borrow

Haply yet a moment's cheer.
But no; slumber on, Babe, slumber ;

Slumber, Ocean-waves; and you,
My dark troubles, without number,-

Oh, that ye would slumber too! Though with wrongs they've brimmed my chalice,

Grant, Jove, that, in future years, This boy may defeat their malice, And avenge his mother's tears!”

SIMONIDES. (Greek.) Translation of WILLIAM PETER.

HER eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from over the main.
She had a baby on her arm,

Or else she were alone;
And underneath the hay-stack warm,

And on the greenwood stone, She talked and sung the woods among, And it was in the English tongue. “Sweet babe! they say that I am mad, But nay, my heart is far too glad: And I am happy when I sing Full many a sad and doleful thing. Then, lovely baby, do not fear!

I pray thee have no fear of me; But safe as in a cradle, here,

My lovely baby! thou shalt be. To thee I know too much I owe; I cannot work thee any woe. “ A fire was once within my brain, And in my head a dull, dull pain; And fiendish faces, one, two, three, Hung at my breast, and pulled at me. But then there came a sight of joy;

It came at once to do me good: I waked, and saw my little boy,

My little boy of flesh and blood; Oh joy for me that sight to see ! For he was here, and only he. "Suck, little babe, oh suck again! It cools my blood; it cools my brain; Thy lips, I feel them, baby! they Draw from my heart the pain away. Oh press me with thy little hand!

It loosens something at my chest ; About that tight and deadly band

I feel thy little fingers prest. The breeze I see is in the tree It comes to cool my babe and me. “Oh love me, love me, little boy! Thou art thy mother's only joy ; And do not dread the waves below, When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go;

Boyhood. Ah, then how sweetly closed those crowded

The minutes parting one by one like rays,

That fade upon a summer's eve.
But oh! what charm, or magic numbers
Can give me back the gentle slumbers

Those weary, happy days did leave
When by my bed I saw my mother kneel,
And with her blessing took her nightly kiss;
Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this —
E'en now that nameless kiss I feel.


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