THE FERN BURNER.

YET cannot heat's meridian rage deter

The cottage-matron from her annual toil.
On that rough bank behold her bent to reap
The full-grown fern, her harvest, and prepare
Her ashy balls of purifying fame.

Lo! yon bare spot she destines for the hearth;
Now strikes the steel, the tinder covers light
With wither'd leaves and dry; now stoops to fan
The glimmering sparks, and motionless remains,
Watching the infant flame from side to side
Run through the thin materials. Round her stray
Children or grandchildren, a cheerful train,
Dispersed among the bushes; earnest each
To execute the task her nod assigns,

Half sport, half labour, fit for early youth.
One plies the hook, the rake another trails;
Another, staggering, bears the verdant load
Uplifted in his arms; another hastes
Her apron's burden to discharge. Each step
Active and promp obedience quickens, zeal
Inspired by love; the temper of the soul
Which to the parent most endears the child,
The Christian to his God. Well pleased the dame
Receives their tribute; part she heaps aside
In store for night, the embers to preserve
From quenching dews; part on the kindled pile
Adroit she sprinkles; duly with her fork
Then opes the sinking strata to admit
Currents of needful air; at every gale

The enliven❜d mass glows bright, and crackles loud.
Puffing from numerous chinks the smoke unfolds
Its wreathed volumes; not as when, condensed
By evening's gelid atmosphere, it creeps

Below the hill, and draws along the ground
Its lengthen'd train, and spreading as it rolls,
Melts in blue vapour; but aspiring shoots
Its growth columnar, and displays afar
Its broad and dusky head, to pilgrim's eye
As view'd o'er Salem's plain the palm ascends.
Hence shall the matron in the distant town
With lifted hands her snowy flax admire,
And scorn the produce of Hibernian looms.

REV. T. GISBORNE.

GIPSIES.

I SEE a column of slow-rising smoke
O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild;
A vagabond and useless tribe there eat
Their miserable meal. A kettle slung
Between two poles upon a stick transverse,
Receives the morsel-flesh obscene of dog,
Or vermin, or at best of cock purloin'd
From his accustom'd perch. Hard-faring race!
They pick their fuel out of every hedge,

Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves un

quench'd

The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide
Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin,
The vellum of the pedigree they claim.
Great skill have they in palmistry, and more
To conjure clean away the gold they touch,
Conveying worthless dross into its place;
Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal.
Strange that a creature rational and cast
In human mould should brutalize by choice
His nature; and though capable of arts

By which the world might profit, and himself,
Self-banish'd from society, prefer

Such squalid sloth to honourable toil!

Yet even these, though feigning sickness oft
They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb,
And vex their flesh with artificial sores,
Can change their whine into a mirthful note
When safe occasion offers; and with dance
And music of the bladder and the bag

Beguile their woes and make the woods resound.
Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy

The houseless rovers of the silvan world; [much,
And, breathing wholesome air, and wandering
Need other physic none to heal the effects
Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold.

COWPER.

LINES

WRITTEN ON SEEING A PICTURE BY BERGHEM,
OF AN ASS IN A STORM-SHOWER.

POOR wretch! that blasted leafless tree,
More frail and deathlike e'en than thee,
Can yield no shelter to thy shivering form;
The sleet, the rain, the wind of heaven
Full in thy face are coldly driven,

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
On thee; nor am I loath to praise

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
soft and sweet.

The summer sun is sinking down,
And the peasants from the market town

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
Stirs through its leafy solitude

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,
And, peeping through a flowery glade,

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
Supports the dying maiden's frame,

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
A holier image to my heart,

For oft doth grief to thoughts sublime give birth:
Bless'd creature! through the solemn night,
I see thee bathed in heavenly light,

Shed from that wondrous child-the Saviour of the Earth,