THE FERN BURNER. YET cannot heat's meridian rage deter The cottage-matron from her annual toil. Lo! yon bare spot she destines for the hearth; Half sport, half labour, fit for early youth. The enliven❜d mass glows bright, and crackles loud. Below the hill, and draws along the ground REV. T. GISBORNE. GIPSIES. I SEE a column of slow-rising smoke Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves un quench'd The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide By which the world might profit, and himself, Such squalid sloth to honourable toil! Yet even these, though feigning sickness oft Beguile their woes and make the woods resound. The houseless rovers of the silvan world; [much, COWPER. LINES WRITTEN ON SEEING A PICTURE BY BERGHEM, POOR wretch! that blasted leafless tree, As if thou wert alone the object of the storm. Yet, chill'd with cold and drench'd with rain, Mild creature, thou dost not complain By sound or look of these ungracious skies; Calmly as if in friendly shed There stand'st thou with unmoving head, And a grave patient meekness in thy half closed eyes. Long could my thoughtful spirit gaze Him who in moral mood this image drew; And yet, methinks, that I could frame An image different, yet the same, More pleasing to the heart, and yet to nature true. Behold a lane retired and green, Winding amid a forest scene With blooming furze in many a radiant heap, There is a browsing ass espied, One colt is frisking by her side, And one among her feet is safely stretch'd in sleep. And lo! a little maiden stands, With thistles in her tender hands, Tempting with kindly words the colt to eat; Or gently down before him lays, With words of solace and of praise, Pluck'd from the' untrodden turf the herbage The summer sun is sinking down, With cheerful hearts are to their homes returning; Groups of gay children too are there, Stirring with mirth the silent air, O'er all their eager eyes the light of laughter burning. The ass hath got his burden still! The merry elves the panniers fill; Delighted there from side to side they swing. The creature heeds nor shout nor call, But jogs on careless of them all, Whether in harmless sport they gaily strike or sing. A gipsy group! the secret wood As wheels the dance to many a jocund tune; The' unpannier'd ass slowly retires From the brown tents and sparkling fires, And silently feeds on beneath the silent moon. The moon sits o'er the huge oak tree, More pensive 'mid this scene of glee, That mocks the hour of beauty and of rest; The soul of all her softest rays On yonder placid creature plays, As if she wish'd to cheer the hardships of the' oppress'd. But now the silver moonbeams fade, Hush'd as a wild bird's nest, a cottage lies: An ass stands meek and patient there, And by her side a spectre fair, To drink the balmy cup once more before she dies. With tenderest care the pitying dame And strives with laughing looks her soul to cheer; While playful children crowd around To catch her eye by smile or sound, [dear! Unconscious of the doom that waits their lady I feel this mournful dream impart For oft doth grief to thoughts sublime give birth: Shed from that wondrous child-the Saviour of the Earth, |