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Soon to be left alone in this bad world, -
This comes of your great schools Had kept her sleepless; aud when prudent love And college-breeding. Plague upon his guardians, In something better than a servant's stale
That would have made him wiser than his fathers! Had placed her well at last, it was a pang Like parting life to part with her dear girl.
If his poor father, Gregory, had but lived,
Things would not have been so. He, poor good man, One summer, Charles, when at the holidays
Had little of book-learning, but there lived not Return d from school, I visited again
A kinder, nobler-hearted gentleman, My old accustom'd walks, and found in them
One better to his tenants. When he died A joy almost like meeting an old friend,
There was not a dry eye for miles around. I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds
Gregory, I thought that I could never know Already crowding the neglected flowers.
A sadder day than that: but what was that,
Compared with this day's sorrow?
when the young Squire began Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.
To alter the old mansion, they destroy'd
The martin's nests, that had stood undisturb'd I pass this ruind dwelling oftentimes,
Under that roof, -aye! long before my memory. And think of other days. It wakes in me
I shook my head at seeing it, and thought A transient sadness; but the feelings, Charles,
No good could follow. Which ever with these recollections rise,
Poor young man! I loved him
For five-and-forty years. I lived with them
When his good father brought my Lady home:
And when the young Squire was born, it did me good
An heir. This is indeed a heavy blow-
I feel it, Gregory, heavier than the weight
Of threescore years. He was a noble lad,
I loved him dearly. Where shall we meet the corpse?
Every body loved him. Some hour from hence; Such a fine, generous, open-hearted Youth! By noon, and near about the elms, I take it.
When he came home froin school at holidays, This is not as it should be, Gregory,
How I rejoiced to see him! he was sure
To come and ask of me what birds there were
There is not a testy Squire preserves bis game
More charily, than I have kept them safe
For Master Edward. And he look'd so well
Upon a fine sharp morning after them, "T is what we all must come to, soon or late.
His brown hair frosted, and his chcek so flush'd But when a young mau dies, in the prime of life, With such a wholesome ruddiness, -alı, James, One born so well, who might have blest us all
But he was sadly changed when lie came down Many long years!—
To keep his birth-day.
And then the family
Changed! why, Gregory,
It struck a damp
We had for wishing that, and spoilt the draught. Jazy idler,-one who better likes
The alchouse than his work?
Why, Sir, for that
He always was a well-condition'd lad, He look'd to me as one that was not long
One who'd work hard and well; and as for drink, For this world's business.
Save now and then mayhap at Christmas time,
Sober as wife could wish.
Then is the girl That all was over. There's but little hope,
A shrew, or else untidy ;-one to welcome Methinks, that foreign parts can help a man
Her husband with a rude unruly tongue,
Or drive him from a foul and wretched home
She's notable enough ; and as for temper Beyond its reach, but this was a last duty:
The best good-humour'd girl! You see yon house, I am an old tenant of the family,
There by the
grey leaves shine Born on the estate, and now that I've outlived it, In the wind? she lived a servant at the farm, Why'ı is but right to see it to the grave.
And often, as I came to weeding here, Have you heard aught of the new uire?
I've heard her singing as she milk'd her cows
So cheerfully:-1 did not like to bear ber,
But little, Because it made me think upon the days And that not well. But be he what he may
When I had got as little on my mind, Matters not much to me. The love I bore
And was as cliecrful too. But she would marry, To the old family will not casily fix
And folks must reap as they have sown. God help her Upon a stranger. What's on the opposite hill ?
Why, Mistress, if they both are well inclined,
Why should not both be happy?
WOMAN. Aye! they are the black cloaks; and now I see
They 've no money. The while plumes on the licarse.
Between the trees; She a labour for herself as at the farm. "T is hid behind them now.
And he wo'n't work the worse because he knows GREGORY.
That she will make his fire-side ready for him,
Aye! now we see it, And watch for his return.
All very well,
A little while.
And what if they are poor?
And much we know will be expected there
All this I have heard at church! THE WEDDING.
And when I walk in the church-yard, or have been
By a death-bed, 't is mighty comforting.
But when I hear my children cry for hunger,
And see them shiver in their rags-God help me! Ringing so merrily!
I pity those for whom these bells ring up
So merrily upon their weuding-day,
Because I think of mine.
You have known trouble;
Why for that
I've had my share ; some sickness and some sorrow:
Well will it be for them to know no worse.
Yet had I rather hear a daughter's knell
Than her wedding-peal, Sir, if I thought her fate
Promised no better things.
Sure, sure, good woman,
You look upon the world with jaundiced eyes! For wilfully, like this new-married pair,
But the Parish-
Aye, it falls heavy there ; and yet their pillance
To slave while there is strength, in age the workhouse,
A parish shell at last, and the little bell
Aye, Sir; and were he drest
And clean'd, he 'd be as five a boy to look on
As the Squire's young master. These thio rays of his
Let comfortably in the summer wind;
To see the little wretch! I've three besides ;
Avd, -God forgive me! but I often wish
To see them in their coffins.—God reward you!
You have taught me
To give sad meaning to the village bells!
1 800. Of his half meal!
THE ALDERMAN'S FUNERAL.
Whom are they ushering from the world, with all
This pageantry and long parade of death?
A long parade, indeed, Sir, and yet here
You see but half; round yonder bend it reaches
A furlong farther, carriage behind carriage.
'T is but a mournful sight, and yet the pomp
Tempts me to stand a gazer.
Who plays the truant, says the proclamation
Of peace was nothing to the show; and even
The chairing of the members at election
Would not have been a finer sight than this;
Ooly that red and green are prettier colours
Than all this mourning. There, Sir, you behold
One of the red-gown'd worthies of the city,
The envy and the boast of our exchange;-
Aye, what was worth, last week, a good half-million,
Screwd down in yonder hearse!
Then he was born
Under a lucky planet, who to-day
Puts mourning on for his inheritance.
When first I heard his death, that very
Leape to my lips; but now the closing scene
And I bless God, that, when I go to the grave,
The camel and the needle,-
Upon the point. This man of half a million
Was his wealth Stored fraudfully,-the spoil of orphans wrong'd, And widows who had none to plead their right?
TOWNSMAN All honest, open,
honourable gains, Fair legal interest, bonds and mortgages, Ships to the East and West.
Why judge you then So hardly of the dead?
For what he left Undone ;-for sins, not one of which is mentioned In the Ten Commandments. He, I warrant him, Believed no other Gods than those of the Creed: Bowd to no idols,—but bis money-bags : Swore no false oaths, except at the custom-house: Kept the Sabbath idle: built a monument To honour his dead father: did no murder : Was too old-fashion'd for adultery: Never pick'd pockets : Never bore false witness : And never, with that all-commanding wealth, Coveted his neighbour's house, nor ox, nor ass!
I must needs
air and sunshine of the fields,
Even half a million
You knew him then, it seems?
As all men know The virtues of your hundred-thousanders; They never hide their lights beneath a bushel.
We track the streamlet by the brighter green
Yet even these
Now, Sir, you touch
She loved, and young Richard had settled the day,
But Richard was idle and worthless, and they
Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say
That she was too good for his wife.
And smoking in silence, with tranquil delight
They listen'd to hear the wind roar.
To hear the wind whistle without.»
« What a night for the Abbey! » his comrade replied,
« I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear
For this wind might awaken the dead ! »
That Mary would venture there now.»
and lose!» with a sneer he replied, ing near the Meer, he heard the lamentable cries of this distressed « I 'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, woman, begging for mercy, which at first put him to a stand; but And faint if she saw a white cow.» being a man of great resolution and some policy, he went boldly on, bowever, counterfeiting the presence of divers other persons, caliing Jack, Dick, and Tom, and crying Here are the rogues we look'd
« Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?» for, etc.; which being beard by the murderer, be left the woman
His companion exclaim'd with a smile;
From the elder that grows in the aisle.»
And her way to the Abbey she bent;
The night was dark, and the wind was high,
She shiver'd with cold as she went.
O'er the path so well known still proceeded the Maid
Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight.
Through the gateway she enter'd, she felt not afraid,
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade
Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.
All around her was silent, save when the rude blast
Howld dismally round the old pile;
Over weed-cover'd fragments she fearlessly past,
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last
Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle.
Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,
Poor Mary the Maniac hath been;
As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.
Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near,
And hastily gatherd the bough;
And her heart panted fearfully now.
Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight
As she welcomed them in with a smile;
When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.
The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head,
She listen d-nought else could she hear;
Of footsteps approaching her near.