Some talk of Hoe-cake, fair Virginia's pride,
Rich Johnny-cake this mouth has often tried;
Both please me well, their virtues much the same,
Alike their fabric, as allied their fame.
Except in dear New England, where the last
Receives a dash of pumpkin in the paste,
To give it sweetness and improve the taste.
But place them all before me, smoking hot,
The big round dumpling rolling from the pot;
The pudding of the bag, whose quivering breast,
With suet lined, leads on the Yankee feast;
The Charlotte brown, within whose crusty sides,
A belly soft the pulpy apple hides;

The yellow bread, whose face like amber glows,
And all of Indian that the bake-pan knows—
Ye tempt me not- my fav'rite greets my eyes -
To that loved bowl my spoon by instinct flies.

The days grow short; but tho' the fallen sun
To the glad swain proclaims his day's work done,
Night's pleasant shades his various tasks prolong,
And yield new subjects to my various song.
For now, the cornhouse filled, the harvest home,
Th' invited neighbors to the husking come;
A frolic scene, where work and mirth and play
Unite their charm to chase the hours away.

Where the huge heap lies centered in the hall,
The lamp suspended from the cheerful wall,
Brown corn-fed nymphs, and strong hard-handed beaux,
Alternate ranged, extend in circling rows,
Assume their seats, the solid mass attack;
The dry husks rustle and the corn-cobs crack;
The song, the laugh, alternate notes resound,
And the sweet cider trips in silence round.

The laws of husking every wight can tell;
And sure no laws he ever keeps so well;
For each red ear a general kiss he gains,
With each smut ear he smuts the luckless swains;
But when to some sweet maid a prize is cast,
Red as her lips and taper as her waist,
She walks the rounds, and culls one favored beau,
Who leaps the luscious tribute to bestow.
Various the sports, as are the wits and brains
Of well-pleased lasses and contending swains,
Till the vast mound of corn is swept away,
And he that gets the last ear wins the day.

Meanwhile the housewife urges all her care
The well-earned feast to hasten and prepare.
The sifted meal already waits her hand,
The milk is strained, the bowls in order stand,
The fire flames high; and, as a pool (that takes
The headlong stream that o'er the milldam breaks)
Foams, roars, and rages with incessant toils,
So the vext cauldron rages, roars, and boils.

First with clean salt she seasons well the food,
Then strews the flour, and thickens all the flood.
Long o'er the simmering fire she lets it stand:
To stir it well demands a stronger hand;

There still belong

The husband takes his turn; and round and round
The ladle flies; at last the toil is crowned;
When to the board the thronging huskers pour,
And take their seats as at the corn before.
I leave them to their feast.
More copious matters to my faithful song.
For rules there are, tho' ne'er unfolded yet,
Nice rules and wise, how pudding should be eat.
Some with molasses line the luscious treat,
And mix, like Bards, the useful with the sweet.
A wholesome dish, and well deserving praise,
A great resource in those bleak, wintry days,
When the chilled earth lies buried deep in snow,
And raging Boreas dries the shivering cow.

Blest cow! thy praise shall still my notes employ,
Great source of health, the only source of joy;
Mother of Egypt's God but sure for me,

Were I to leave my God, I'd worship thee.
How oft thy teats these pious hands have prest!
How oft thy bounties proved my only feast!
How oft I've fed thee with my fav'rite grain!
And roared like thee, to find thy children slain!

Ye swains who know her various worth to prize,
Ah! house her well from Winter's angry skies.
Potatoes, pumpkins, should her sadness cheer,
Corn from your crib, and mashes from your beer;
When Spring returns she'll well acquit the loan,
And nurse at once your infants and her own.

Milk, then, with pudding I should always choose;

To this in future I confine my Muse,

Till she in haste some farther hints unfold,
Well for the young, nor useless to the old.
First in your bowl the milk abundant take;

Then drop with care along the silver lake
Your flakes of pudding; these at first will hide
Their little bulk beneath the swelling tide;
But when their growing mass no more can sink,
When the soft island looms above the brink,
Then check your hand; you've got the portion due;
So taught our sires, and what they taught is true.
There is a choice in spoons. Tho' small appear
The nice distinction, yet to me 'tis clear.
The deep-bowled Gallic spoon contrived to scoop
In ample draughts their thin diluted soup,
Performs not well in those substantial things,
Whose mass adhesive to the metal clings;
Where the strong labial muscles must embrace
The gentle curve, and sweep the hollow space.
With ease to enter and discharge the freight,
A bowl less concave but still more dilate,
Becomes the pudding best. The shape, the size,
A secret rest unknown to vulgar eyes,
Experienced feeders can alone impart
A rule so much above the lore of art.

These tuneful lips, that thousand spoons have tried,
With just precision could the point decide,
Tho' not in song; the muse but poorly chimes

In cones and cubes and geometric lines.
Yet the true form, as near as she can tell,
Is that small section of a goose-egg-shell,
Which in two equal portions shall divide
The distance from the center to the side.

Fear not to slaver; 'tis no deadly sin.
Like the free Frenchman, from your joyous chin
Suspend the ready napkin, or, like me,
Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee;
Just in the zenith your wise head project,

Your full spoon rising in a line direct,
Bold as a bucket, heed no drops that fall,

The wide-mouthed bowl will surely catch them all.

WILLIAM BLAKE'S POEMS.

[WILLIAM BLAKE, English artist and poet, was born in London, November 28, 1757. He became an illustrator, engraver, print-seller, and Royal Academician, and wrote many volumes of poetry illustrated by himself. He was a childlike mystic, who believed himself inspired by spirits. He published: “Poetical Sketches" (1783), "Songs of Innocence" and "Prophetic Books" (1789), "Marriage of Heaven and Hell" (1790), "Songs of Experience" and "Book of Orizen" (1794), "Book of Los" (1795), "Book of Aharia" (1795), “Jerusalem" and "Milton" (1804), etc. He died August 12, 1827.]

TRUE LOVE DOTH PASS AWAY.

MY SILKS and fine array,

My smiles and languished air,

By love are driven away;

And mournful lean Despair

Brings me yew to deck my grave:
Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven

When springing buds unfold;
Oh, why to him was 't given
Whose heart is wintry cold?
His breast is love's all-worshiped tomb
Where all love's pilgrims come.

Bring me an ax and spade,

Bring me a winding sheet;
When I my grave have made,

Let winds and tempest beat;

Then down I'll lie as cold as clay.
True love doth pass away!

STREAM REVERIE.

Memory, hither come

And tune your merry notes;

And while upon the wind
Your music floats,

I'll pore upon the stream

Where sighing lovers dream,

And fish for fancies as they pass
Within the watery glass.

INTRODUCTION TO "SONGS OF INNOCENCE."

Piping down the valleys wild,

Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,

And he laughing said to me:

"Pipe a song about a lamb:"
So I piped with merry cheer.
"Piper, pipe that song again:"
So I piped; he wept to hear.

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,
Sing thy songs of happy cheer:"
So I sung the same again,

While he wept with joy to hear.

"Piper, sit thee down and write

In a book that all may read,”.
So he vanished from my sight;
And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,

And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs,
Every child may joy to hear.

THE MENTAL TRAVELER.

I traveled through a land of men,
A land of men and women too;

And heard and saw such dreadful things
As cold earth wanderers never knew.

For there the babe is born in joy
That was begotten in dire woe;
Just as we reap in joy the fruit
Which we in bitter tears did sow.

And if the babe is born a boy,
He's given to a woman old,
Who nails him down upon a rock,
Catches his shrieks in cups of gold.

She binds iron thorns around his head,
She pierces both his hands and feet,