2. THE DEAF PEASANT.
There beneath
The plain blue stone, a gentle dalesman lies,
From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn
The precious gift of hearing. He grew up
From year to year, in loneliness of soul;
And this deep mountain valley was to him
Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn
Did never rouse this cottager from sleep
With startling summons; not for his delight
The vernal cuckoo shouted; not for him
Murmur'd the labouring bee. When stormy winds.
Were working the broad bosom of the lake
Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves,
Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud
Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags,
The agitated scene before his eye
Was silent as a picture; evermore
Were all things silent wheresoe'er he moved :
Yet by the solace of his own pure thoughts
Upheld, he duteously pursued the round
Of rural labours; the steep mountain side
Ascended with his staff and faithful dog;
The plough he guided, and the scythe he sway'd,
And the ripe corn before his sickle fell
Among the jocund reapers.
Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home. 4. THE CHILD.
The child is father to the man.
5. THE GOOD OLD RULE.
The good old rule
Sufficeth them, the simple plan,
That they must take who have the
And they must keep who can.
6. A SIMILE.
As the ample moon,
In the deep stillness of a summer even,
Rising behind a thick and lofty grove,
Burns like an unconsuming fire of light
In the green trees; and, kindling on all sides
Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil
Into a substance glorious as her own,
Yea, with her own incorporated, by power
Capacious and serene; like power abides
In man's celestial spirit. Virtue thus
Sets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds
A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire
From the incumbrances of mortal life,
From error, disappointment,-nay, from guilt,
And sometimes (so relenting Justice wills)
From palpable oppressions of despair.
CCLXXI. JOHN TOBIN, 1770-1804
WOMEN'S ORNAMENTS.
I'll have no glittering gewgaws stuck about you,
To stretch the gaping eyes of idiot wonder,
And make men stare upon a piece of earth
As on the star-wrought firmament-no feathers
To wave as streamers to your vanity-
Nor cumbrous silk, that, with its rustling sound,
Makes proud the flesh that bears it. She's adorned
Amply, that in her husband's eye looks lovely-
The truest mirror that an honest wife
Thus modestly attired A half-blown rose stuck in thy braided hair, With no more diamonds than those eyes are made of No deeper rubies than compose thy lips,
Nor pearls more precious than inhabit them;
With the pure red and white, which that same hand
Which bleuds the rainbow mingles in thy cheeks.
This well-proportioned form-think not I flatter-
In graceful motion to harmonious sounds,
And thy free tresses dancing in the wind;
Thou'lt fix as much observance, as chaste dames
Can meet without a blush.
'Story! God bless you, I have none to tell, Sir."
CCLXXII. GEORGE CANNING, 1770-1827.
THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER.
Needy knife-grinder, whither are you going?
Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order;
Bleak blows the blast ;-your hat has got a hole in't,
So have your breeches.
Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
-road, what hard work 'tis crying all day," Knives and
Scissors to grind-O!"
Tell me, knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives,
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the squire ? or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?
Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit ?
Have you not read the Rights of Man by Tom Paine?
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your
Pitiful story.
Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir :
Only last night, a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Constables came up for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-
I should be glad to drink your honour's health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
But for my part, I never love to meddle
|