Drops chase each other down his breast and sides, Ah, well for him if here his suffering ceased, Or through his frame reviving ardour burn, Come forth he must, though limping, maim'd, and sore, He hears the whip-the chaise at the door! The collar tightens, and again he feels His half heal'd wounds inflamed, again the wheels What say'st thou, Dobbin? what though hounds await Shall boast of mighty loads that Dobbin drew, RICHARD AND KATE, OR FAIR DAY. (A Suffolk Ballad.) "Come, Goody, stop your humdrum wheel, Sweep up your orts, and get your hat; Old joys revived once more I feel, 'Tis Fair day; ay, and more than that. Ay Kate, I wooll, because I know, Though time has been we both could run, Such days are gone and over now; I only mean to see the fun." The day was up, the air serene, The firmament without a cloud; The bee humm'd o'er the level green Where knots of trembling cowslips bow'd. And Richard thus, with heart elate, Who, snug tuck'd up, walked on behind, At length arrived amidst the throng, Grand-children bawling hemm'd them round, And dragg'd them by the skirts along CC 'Twas good to see the honest strife, Which should contribute most to please; And hear the long-recounted life Of infant tricks and happy days. But now, as at some nobler places, More famed for laughter than for speed. Richard look'd on with wondrous glee, And praised the lad who chanced to win; "Kate, wa'nt I such a one as he? As like him, aye, as pin to pin. Thus spoke the ale in Richard's pate, A very little made him mellow, But still he loved his faithful Kate, Who whisper'd thus, "My good old fellow, "Remember what you promised me, And see, the sun is getting low; The children want an hour ye see To talk a bit before we go." Kate viewed her blooming daughters round, The children toppled on the green, And bowl'd their fairings down the hill; Richard with pride beheld the scene, A father's uncheck'd feelings gave 'My boys, how proud am I to have My name thus round the country spread! Through all my days I've laboured hard, But this is labour's great reward, To meet ye thus and see ye well. "My good old partner, when at home, "May you be all as old as I, And see your sons to manhood grow; "Then, (raising still his mug and voice,) For, as he spoke, a big round drop A witness which all hearts believe. Thou, Filial Piety, wert there; And round the ring, benignly bright, Dwelt in the luscious half-shed tear, And in the parting words—" Good night." With thankful hearts and strengthen'd love, The poor old pair, supremely blest, Saw the sun sink behind the grove, And gain'd once more their lowly rest. ROBERT SOUTHEY. THE POET AND HIS POETRY. [ROBERT SOUTHEY, (Poet Laureate,) was born at Bristol, in 1774, in which place his father carried on an extensive business as a linen draper. Mr. Southey was first educated under Mr. Foote, a baptist minister of great talent, from whom he is said to have imbibed those "crude notions," which exhibited themselves in his early writings. He was afterwards removed to Westminster School, and thence to Oxford, where he was entered a student of Baliol College, with a view to the church to which however he was not at that time partial. In 1801, Mr. Southey was appointed Secretary to the Right Honourable Isaac Corry, Chancellor of the Exchequer for Ireland, but retired from office with his patron. In 1813, on the death of Mr. Pye, he succeeded to the office of Poet Laureate. Southey has written a great deal, both verse and prose. His early poetical productions were disfigured by party politics, but nevertheless contain evidence of powerful genius: "Wat Tyler," "Joan of Arc," and "Thalaba," abound in rich descriptions, and are full of passion and feeling. Latterly the author has written little but prose, and his "Life of Lord Nelson," "Life of Westley," "History of the Peninsula," and "Book of the Church," are considered fine specimens of English composition; his prose has been preferred to his poetry and not without reason, for while one may exhibit the man of feeling and imagination, the other exhibits the most splendid proofs of a richly stored mind, an impartial judgment, and sets forth in every page the frankness and candour of an honest man.] EXTRACTS FROM SOUTHEY. THE MAID OF THE INN. Who is she, the poor maniac! whose wildly fix'd eyes She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; |