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Thither affliction, thither poverty,
But joy superior far his bosom warms,
Ye, who the shuttle cast along the loom, The silkworm's thread inweaving with the fleece, Pray for the culture of the Georgian track, Nor slight the green savannas and the plains Of Carolina, where thick woods arise Of mulberries, and in whose watered fields Upsprings the verdant blade of thirsty rice. Where are the happy regions which afford More implements of commerce and of wealth ?
Fertile Virginia, like a vigorous bough, Which overshades some crystal river, spreads Her wealthy cultivations wide around, And, more than many a spacious realm, rewards The fleecy shuttle: to her growing marts The Iroquese, Cheroquese, and Oubaches come, And quit their feathery ornaments uncouth For woolly garments; and the cheers of lifeThe cheers, but not the vices, learn to taste. Blush, Europeans ! whom the circling cup Of luxury intoxicates; ye routs, Who, for your crimes, have fled your native land; And ye voluptuous idle, who in vain Seek easy habitations, void of care : The sons of Nature with astonishment And detestation mark your evil deeds, And view, no longer aw'd, your nerveless arms, Unfit to cultivate Ohio's banks.
See the bold emigrants of Acadie And Massachuset, happy in those arts That join the politics of trade and war,
Bearing the palm in either; they appear
Must it be ever thus ? or may the hand
A day will come, if not too deep we drink
DYER's Fleece, 1770-115S.
A FAYRE AND HAPPY MILK-MAID.
Is a countrey wench, that is so farre from making her selfe beautifull by art, that one looke of hers is able to put all face physicke out of countenance. She knowes a faire looke is but a dumbe orator to commend virtue, therefore minds it not. All her excellencies stand in her so silently, as if they had stolne upon her without her knowledge. The lining of her apparall (which is her selfe) is farre better than outsides of tisseu ; for though she be not arraied in the spoile of the silke-worme, shee is deckt in innocency, a farre better wearing. She doth not, with lying long abed, spoile both her complexion and conditions. Nature hath taught her too immoderate sleepe is rust to the soule; she rises, therefore, with chaunticleare, her dame's cock, and at night makes the lambe her curfew. In milking a cow, a-straining the teats through her fingers, it seems that so sweete a milk-presse makes the milk the whiter or sweeter; for never came almond glove, or aromatique oyntment on her palme to taint it. The golden eares of corne fall and kisse her feet when she reapes them, as if they wisht to be bound, and led prisoners by the same hand that felld them. Her breath is her own, which scents all the yeare long of June, like a new-made hay-cocke. She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft with pity; and when winter evenings fall early (sitting at her mery wheele) she sings a defiance to the giddy wheele of fortune. She doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seems ignorance will not suffer her to do ill, being her mind is to doe well. She bestowes her yeare's wages at next faire; and in chusing her garments, counts no bravery i’ the world like decency. The gardın and bee-hive are all her physick and chyrurgerye, and shee lives the longer for't. She dares goe alone, and unfold sheepe i’ the night, and feares no manner of ill, because she meanes none; yet to say truth, she is never alone, for she is still accompanied with old songs, honest thoughts, and prayers, but short ones; yet they have their efficacy, in that they are not pauled with ensuing idle cogitations. Lastly : her dreams are so chaste, that she dare tell them; only a Fridaie's dream is all her superstition: that shee conceales for feare of anger. Thus lives she, and all her care is that she may die in the spring-time, to have store of flowers stucke upon her winding-sheet.
Sir Thomas OVERBURY, 1581-1613.
The Teviot takes its course through wide valleys of smooth, extended pasturage, sloping down to it in all directions, and in general forming beautiful lines, though otherwise void of all those circumstances, and that variety of objects, particularly of wood, which give beauty to landscape. In some parts these valleys are also contracted, but in a different manner from those of the Esk. The same breadth of feature is still preserved which we had in the more open parts, only it is here brought nearer to the eye. Though the lofty skreens rush down precipitately to the river, and contract the valleys, you see plainly they are the parts of a large-featured country, and in a style of landscape very different from those little irriguous valleys which we had left.
The downy sides of all these valleys are covered with sheep, which often appear to hang upon immense green walls. So steep is the descent in some parts, that the eye from the bottom scarce distinguishes the slope from a perpendicular. Several of these mountainous slopes (for some of them are very lofty) are finely tinted with mosses of different hues, which give them a very rich surface. This, however, is probably the garb which nature wears only in the summer months. She has a variety of dresses for all seasons, and all so becoming, that when she deposits one, and assumes another, she is always adorned with beauties peculiar to herself.
GILPIN's “ Highlands of Scotland."
THE SPINNER'S SONG.
Turn, busy wheel, turn, busy wheel,
A thread as fine and free
Of yon old apple-tree,
Turn, busy wheel, turn swiftly round,
Of peaceful industry;
Crowd yon broad linden-tree,
MARY R. MITFORD.
SONG FOR THE SPINNING-WHEEL.
FOCXDXD UPON A RELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE PASTORAL VALKS OF WEST MORELAND,
Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel!
Night has brought the welcome hour,
Help as if from fairy power;
Now beneath the starry sky
Rest the widely-scattered sheep;
For the spindle, while they sleep,
By a glance of feeble eyes ;
Which the kindly wool supplies, When the flocks are all at rest, Sleeping on the mountain's breast.
WILLIAM WORDS WORTII.
Answered I, “When morning leaves
Her bright footprints on the sea,
Wurtha, thou shalt glean for me."
All along the vale below,
Haco, let us rise and go;
Leaves her footprints on the sea,
But I can not glean for thee." And as I my reed so light
Blowing sat, her fears to calm, Said she, “ Haco, yesternight,
In my dream, I missed a lamb; And as down the misty vale
Went I pining for the lost,' Something shadowy and pale
And phantom-like my pathway crossedSaying, “ In a chilly bel,
Low and dark, but full of peace,