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The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,
With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel, gay;
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.
Vain transitory splendours! could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall?
Obscure it sinks; nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart.
Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;

No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round.

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Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
These simple blessings of the lowly train;
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art.

WILLIAM COWPER.

BORN, 1731; DIED, 1800.

TOWN AND COUNTRY LIFE.

GOD made the country, and man made the town. What wonder then that health and virtue-gifts That can alone make sweet the bitter draught That life holds out to all-should most abound, And least be threatened, in the fields and groves? Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne about

In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue

THE RURAL WALK.

But that of idleness, and taste no scenes,
But such as art contrives, possess ye still
Your element; there only can ye shine;
There only minds like yours can do no harm.
Our groves were planted to console at noon
The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve,
The moonbeam, sliding softly in between

The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish;
Birds warbling all the music. We can spare
The splendour of your lamps; they but eclipse
Our softer satellite. Your songs confound
Our more harmonious notes: the thrush departs
Scared, and the offended nightingale is mute.
There is a public mischief in your mirth;

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It plagues your country. Folly such as yours,
Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan,
Has made-what enemies could ne'er have done-
Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you,
A mutilated structure, soon to fall.

THE RURAL WALK.

FOR I have loved the rural walk through lanes
Of grassy swarth, close cropp'd by nibbling sheep
And skirted thick with intertexture firm
Of thorny boughs; have loved the rural walk
O'er hills, through valleys, and by river's brink,
E'er since a truant boy, I passed my bounds,
To enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames;
And still remember, nor without regret,
Of hours, that sorrow has since much endear'd,
How oft, my slice of pocket store consumed,
Still hungering, penniless, and far from home,
I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws,
Or blushing crabs, or berries, that emboss
The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere.
Hard fare! but such as boyish appetite
Disdains not; nor the palate, undepraved
By culinary arts, unsavoury deems.

GEORGE CRABBE.

BORN, 1754; DIED, 1832.

THE COTTAGE GARDEN.

To every cot the lord's indulgent mind
Has a small space for garden-ground assign'd;
Here-till return of morn dismiss'd the farm-
The careful peasant plies the sinewy arm,
Warm'd as he works, and casts his look around
On every foot of that improving ground;
It is his own he sees; his master's eye
Peers not about, some secret fault to spy;
Nor voice severe is there, nor censure known;—
Hope, profit, pleasure—they are all his own.
Here grow the humble chives, and hard by them,
The leek with crown globose and reedy stem;
High climb his pulse in many an even row;
Deep strike the ponderous roots in soil below;
And herbs of potent smell and pungent taste
Give a warm relish to the night's repast;
Apples and cherries grafted by his hand,
And cluster'd nuts for neighbouring market stand.
Nor thus concludes his labour; near the cot,
The reed-fence rises round some fav'rite spot;
Where rich carnations, pinks with purple eyes,
Proud hyacinths, the least some florist's prize,
Tulips tall stemm'd, and pounc'd auriculas rise.

Here on a Sunday-eve, when service ends,

Meet and rejoice a family of friends;
All speak aloud, are happy and are free,
And glad they seem, and gaily they agree.

What, though fastidious ears may shun the speech,
Where all are talkers, and where none can teach;
Where still the welcome and the words are old,
And the same stories are for ever told;

Yet there is joy that, bursting from the heart, Prompts the glad tongue these nothings to impart ;

GRURAL RAMBLES.

That forms these tones of gladness we despise,
That lifts their steps, that sparkles in their eyes;
That talks or laughs or runs or shouts or plays,
And speaks in all their looks and all their ways.

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EBENEZER ELLIOT.
BORN, 1781; DIED, 1850.

RURAL RAMBLES.

THE VILLAGE.

SWEET Village! where my early days were passed,
Though parted long, we meet, we meet at last!

Like friends, imbrowned by many a sun and wind,
Much changed in mien, but more in heart and mind.
Fair, after many years, thy fields appear,
With joy beheld, but not without a tear.
I met thy little river miles before
I saw again my natal cottage door;
Unchanged as truth, the river welcomed home
The wanderer of the sea's heart-breaking foam;
But the changed cottage, like a time-tried friend,
Smote on my heart-strings, at my journey's end.
For now no lilies bloom the door beside!
The very houseleek on the roof hath died;
The windowed gable's ivy bower is gone,
The rose departed from the porch of stone:
The pink, the violet, have fled away,

The polyanthus, and auricula!

And round my home, once bright with flowers, I found Not one square yard, one foot of garden ground.

Path of the quiet fields! that oft of yore

Called me at morn, on Shenstone's page to pore;
Oh! poor man's pathway! where, “at evening's close,'
He stopped to pluck the woodbine and the rose,

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Shaking the dew-drop from the wild-brier bowers,
That stooped beneath their load of summer flowers,
Then eyed the west, still bright with fading flame,
As whistling homeward by the wood he came;
Sweet, dewy, sunny, flowery footpath, thou
Art gone for ever, like the poor man's cow!
No more the wandering townsman's Sabbath smile,
No more the hedger, waiting on the stile
For tardy Jane; no more the muttering bard,
Startling the heifer, near the lone farm-yard;
No more the pious youth, with book in hand,
Spelling the words he fain would understand,—
Shall bless thy mazes, when the village-bell
Sounds o'er the river, softened up the dell.
Here youngling fishers, in the grassy lane,
Purloined their tackle from the broodmare's mane;
And trunnt urchins, by the river's brink,

Caught he fledged throstle as it stooped to drink;
Or with the ramping colt, all joyous, played,
Or scared the owlet in the blue-bell shade.

THE FAMILY EXCURSION.

BONE-WEARY, many-childed, trouble-tried!
Wife of my bosom, wedded to my soul!
Mother of nine that live, and two that died!

This day drink health from nature's mountain bowl;
Nay, why lament the doom which mocks control?
The buried are not lost, but gone before.

Then dry thy tears, and see the river roll

O'er rocks, that crowned yon time-dark heights of yore, Now, tyrant-like, dethroned, to crush the weak no more.

The young are with us yet, and we with them:
O, thank the Lord for all he gives or takes-
The withered bud, the living flower, or gem!
And he will bless us when the world forsakes!

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