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Soon to be left alone in this bad world,

That was a thought which many a winter night
Had kept her sleepless; aud when prudent love
In something better than a servant's state
Had placed her well at last, it was a pang
Like parting life to part with her dear girl.

One summer, Charles, when at the holidays
Return'd from school, I visited again

My old accustom'd walks, and found in them
A joy almost like meeting an old friend,
I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds
Already crowding the neglected flowers.
Joanna, by a villain's wiles seduced,

Had play'd the wanton, and that blow had reach'd
Her mother's heart. She did not suffer long,
Her age was feeble, and the heavy blow
Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.

I pass this ruin'd dwelling oftentimes,
And think of other days. It wakes in me

A transient sadness; but the feelings, Charles,
Which ever with these recollections rise,
I trust in God they will not pass away.

THE LAST OF THE FAMILY.

JAMES.

WHAT, Gregory! you are come, I see, to join us On this sad business.

GREGORY.

Aye, James, I am come, But with a heavy heart, God knows it, man! Where shall we meet the corpse?

JAMES.

GREGORY.

This comes of your great schools

And college-breeding. Plague upon his guardians,
That would have made him wiser than his fathers!
JAMES.

If his poor father, Gregory, had but lived,
Things would not have been so. He, poor good man,
Had little of book-learning, but there lived not

A kinder, nobler-hearted gentleman,
One better to his tenants. When he died
There was not a dry eye for miles around.
Gregory, I thought that I could never know
A sadder day than that: but what was that,
Compared with this day's sorrow?

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Some hour from hence; Such a fine, generous, open-hearted Youth! When he came home from school at holidays, How I rejoiced to see him! he was sure

By noon, and near about the elms, I take it.
This is not as it should be, Gregory,
Old men to follow young ones to the grave!
This morning when I heard the bell strike out,
I thought that I had never heard it toll
So dismally before.

GREGORY.

Well, well! my friend, 'T is what we all must come to, soon or late. But when a young man dies, in the prime of life, One born so well, who might have blest us all Many long years!

JAMES.

And then the family
Extinguish'd in him, and the good old name
Only to be remember'd on a tomb-stone!
A name that has gone down from sire to son
So many generations!-Many a time
Poor Master Edward, who is now a corpse,
When but a child, would come to me and lead me
To the great family-tree, and beg of me
To tell him stories of his ancestors,
Of Eustace, he that went to the Holy Land
With Richard Lion-heart, and that Sir Henry
Who fought at Cressy in King Edward's wars;
And then his little eyes would kindle so

To hear of their brave deeds! I used to think
The bravest of them all would not out-do
My darling boy.

To come and ask of me what birds there were
About my fields; and when I found a covey,
There's not a testy Squire preserves his 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,
His brown hair frosted, and his cheek so flush'd
With such a wholesome ruddiness,-ah, James,
But he was sadly changed when he came down
To keep his birth-day.

JAMES.

Changed! why, Gregory, 'T was like a palsy to me, when he stepp'd Out of the carriage. He was grown so thin, His cheek so delicate sallow, and his eyes Had such a dim and rakish hollowness; And when he came to shake me by the hand, And spoke as kindly to me as he used, I hardly knew the voice.

GREGORY.

It struck a damp On all our merriment. T was a noble Ox That smoked before us, and the old October Went merrily in evertlowing cans; But 't was a skin-deep merriment. My heart Seem'd as it took no share. And when we drank His health, the thought came over me what cause

We had for wishing that, and spoilt the draught. Poor Gentleman! to think ten months ago

He came of age, and now!

JAMES.

I fear'd it then!

He look'd to me as one that was not long For this world's business.

GREGORY.

When the Doctor sent him
Abroad to try the air, it made me certain
That all was over. There's but little hope,
Methinks, that foreign parts can help a man
When his own mother-country will not do.
The last time he came down, these bells rung so

I thought they would have rock'd the old steeple down;
And now that dismal toll! I would have staid
Beyond its reach, but this was a last duty:
I am an old tenant of the family,

Born on the estate, and now that I've outlived it,
Why 't is but right to see it to the grave.
Have heard aught of the new Squire?

you

JAMES.

But little,

And that not well. But be he what he may
Matters not much to me. The love I bore
To the old family will not easily fix
Upon a stranger. What's on the opposite hill?

Is it not the funeral?

GREGORY.

'T is, I think, some horsemen. Aye! they are the black cloaks; and now I see The white plumes on the hearse.

JAMES.

"T is hid behind them now.

GREGORY.

A lazy idler,-one who better likes The alehouse than his work?

WOMAN.

Why, Sir, for that

He always was a well-condition'd lad,
One who'd work hard and well; and as for drink,
Save now and then maylap at Christmas time,
Sober as wife could wish.

TRAVELLER.

Then is the girl

A shrew, or else untidy;-one to welcome
Her husband with a rude unruly tongue,
Or drive him from a foul and wretched home
To look elsewhere for comfort. Is it so?

WOMAN.

She's notable enough; and as for temper
The best good-humour'd girl! You see yon house,
There by the aspen-tree, whose grey leaves shine
In the wind? she lived a servant at the farm,
And often, as I came to weeding here,
I've heard her singing as she milk'd her cows
So cheerfully:-
:-I did not like to hear her,
Because it made me think upon the days
When I had got as little on my mind,

And was as cheerful too. But she would marry,

And folks must reap as they have sown. God help her

TRAVELLER.

Why, Mistress, if they both are well inclined, Why should not both be happy?

WOMAN.

They 've no money.

TRAVELLER.

But both can work; and sure as cheerfully Between the trees;- She'd labour for herself as at the farm.

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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.

TRAVELLER.

Sure, sure, good woman,

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Aye! idleness! the rich folks never fail
To find some reason why the poor deserve
Their miseries!-Is it idleness, I pray you,
That brings the fever or the ague fit?
That makes the sick one's sickly appetite
Turn at the dry bread and potatoe meal?
Is it idleness that makes small wages fail
For growing wants?-Six years agone, these bells
Rung on my wedding-day, and I was told
What I might look for,-but I did not heed
Good counsel. I had lived in service, Sir;
Knew never what it was to want a meal;

Laid down without one thought to keep me sleepless
Or trouble me in sleep; had for a Sunday
My linen gown, and when the pedlar came
Could buy me a new riband.-And my husband,-
A towardly young man and well to do,-
He had his silver buckles and his watch;
There was not in the village one who look'd
Sprucer on holidays. We married, Sir,
And we had children, but as wants increased
Wages did not. The silver buckles went,
So went the watch; and when the holiday coat
Was worn to work, no new one in its place.1
For me-you see my rags! but I deserve them,

A farmer once told the author of Malvern Hills, « that he almost constantly remarked a gradation of changes in those men he bad been in the habit of employing. Young men, he said, were generally neat in their appearance, active and cheerful, till they became married and bad a family, when he had observed that their silver buttons, buckles, and watches gradually disappeared, and their Sunday's clothes became common without any other to supply their place, but, said he, some good comes from this, for they will then work for whatever they can get. -Note to COTTLE's Malvern Hills.

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'Tis but a mournful sight, and yet the pomp Tempts me to stand a gazer.

TOWNSMAN.

Yonder schoolboy 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; Only 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, Screw'd down in yonder hearse!

STRANGER.

Then he was born

Under a lucky planet, who to-day
Puts mourning on for his inheritance.

TOWNSMAN.

When first I heard his death, that very wish
Leapt to my lips; but now the closing scene
Of the comedy hath waken'd wiser thoughts;
And I bless God, that, when I go to the grave,
There will not be the weight of wealth like his
To sink me down.

STRANGER.

The camel and the needle,

Is that then in your mind?

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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:
Bow'd to no idols,-but his 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!

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Upon the point. This man of half a million
Had all these public virtues which you praise:
But the poor man rung never at his door;
And the old beggar, at the public gate,
Who, all the summer long, stands, hat in hand,
He knew how vain it was to lift an eye
To that hard face. Yet he was always found
Among your ten and twenty pound subscribers,
Your benefactors in the newspapers.

His alms were money put to interest

In the other world,-donations to keep open
A running charity-account with heaven :—
Retaining fees against the last assizes,

When, for the trusted talents, strict account
Shall be required from all, and the old Arch-Lawyer
Plead his own cause as plaintiff.

STRANGER.

I must needs Believe you, Sir:-these are your witnesses, These mourners here, who from their carriages Gape at the gaping crowd. A good March wind Were to be pray'd for now, to lend their eyes Some decent rheum. The very hireling mute Bears not a face blanker of all emotion Than the old servant of the family!

How can this man have lived, that thus his death Costs not the soiling one white handkerchief!

TOWNSMAN.

Who should lament for him, Sir, in whose heart
Love had no place, nor natural charity?
The parlour spaniel, when she heard his step,
Rose slowly from the hearth, and stole aside
With creeping pace; she never raised her eyes
To woo kind words from him, nor laid her head
Upraised upon his knee, with fondling whine.
How could it be but thus! Arithmetic
Was the sole science he was ever taught;
The multiplication-table was his Creed,
His Pater-noster, and his Decalogue.

When yet he was a boy, and should have breathed
The open air and sunshine of the fields,

To give his blood its natural spring and play,
He in a close and dusky counting-house,
Smoke-dried and sear'd and shrivell'd up his heart.
So, from the way in which he was train'd up,
His feet departed not; he toil'd and moil'd,
Poor muck-worm! through his three-score years and

ten;

And when the earth shall now be shovell'd on him;
If that which served him for a soul were still
Within his husk, 't would still be dirt to dirt.

STRANGER.

Yet your next newspapers will blazon him
For industry and honourable wealth
A bright example.

TOWNSMAN.

Even half a million

Gets him no other praise. But come this way
Some twelve months hence, and you will find his

virtues

Trimly set forth in lapidary lines,

Faith, with her torch beside, and little Cupids Dropping upon his urn their marble tears.

1803.

BALLADS AND METRICAL TALES.

MARY THE MAID OF THE INN.

The subject of the following Ballad was related to me, when a school-boy, as a fact which had happened in the north of England. Either Furnes or Kirkstall Abbey (I forget which) was named as the It seems, however, to have been founded upon a story related in Dr Plot's History of Staffordshire.

scene.

Amongst the unusual accidents, says this amusing author, that have attended the female sex in the course of their lives, I think I may also reckon the narrow escapes they have made from death. Whereof I met with one mentioned with admiration by every body at Leek, that happened not far off at the Black Meer of Morridge, which, though famous for nothing for which it is commonly reputed so (as that it is bottomless, no cattle will drink of it, or birds fly over or settle upon it, all which I found false), yet is so, for the signal deliverance of a poor woman, enticed thither in a dismal stormy night, by a bloody ruffian, who had first gotten her with child, and intended in this remote inhospitable place to have dispatched her by drowning. The same night (Providence so ordering it) there were several persons of inferior rank drinking in an ale-bouse at Leek, whereof one having been out, and observing the darkness and other ill circumstances of the weather, coming in again, said to the rest of his companions, that he were a stout man indeed that would venture to go to the black Meer of Morridge in such a night as that: to which one of them replying, that for a crown or some such sum he would undertake it, the rest joining their purses, said he should have his demand. The bargain being struck, away he went on his journey with a stick in his hand, which he was to leave there as a testimony of his pe formance. At length coming near the Meer, he heard the lamentable cries of this distressed woman, begging for mercy, which at first put him to a stand; but being a man of great resolution and some policy, he went boldly on, however, counterfeiting the presence of divers other persons, cal!ing Jack, Dick, and Tom, and crying Here are the rogues we look'd for, etc.; which being heard by the murderer, he left the woman and fled; whom the other man found by the Meer side almost stript of her clothes, and brought her with him to Leek as an ample testimony of his having been at the Meer, and of God's providence too.-P. 291.

The metre is Mr Lewis's invention; and metre is one of the few things concerning which popularity may be admitted as a proof of merit. The Ballad has become popular owing to the metre and the story: as for every thing else, dum relego scripsisse pudet. It has however been made the subject of a fine picture by Mr Barker.

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All around her was silent, save when the rude blast
Howl'd 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.

Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near,
And hastily gather'd the bough;

When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear-
She paused, and she listen'd all eager to hear,
And her heart panted fearfully now.

The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head,
She listen'd-nought else could she hear;
The wind fell, her heart sunk in her bosom with dread,
For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread

Of footsteps approaching her near.

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