names nave in our day written more vigorous and more correct verse;-the meadows of Northamptonshire, and the factories of Sheffield, have heard finer and bolder strains from those who live by toil among them;-one of the mightiest minds of the age produced his poems while working at the anvil, and still, apart from patronage, pursues his worldly calling. But the themes of his selection are not of a lowly character; or if he walks through green lanes and looks upon the reaper or the ploughman, it is with loftier thoughts and feelings than those which led the gentle HERE, 'midst the boldest triumphs of her worth, Nature herself invites the reapers forth; Dares the keen sickle from its twelvemonth's rest, And gives that ardour which in every breast From infancy to age alike appears, When the first sheaf its plumy top uprears. No rake takes here what Heaven to all bestows- Hark! where the sweeping scythe now rips along: Each sturdy mower, emulous and strong, Whose writhing form meridian heat defies, Bends o'er his work, and every sinew tries; Prostrates the waving treasure at his feet, But spares the rising clover, short and sweet. Come, Health! come, Jollity! light footed, come; Here hold your revels, and make this your home: Each heart awaits and hails you as its own; Each moisten'd brow, that scorns to wear a frown Th' unpeopled dwelling mourns its tenants stray'd; E'en the domestic laughing dairy-maid Hies to the field, the general toil to share. Meanwhile the Farmer quits his elbow-chair, His cool brick floor, his pitcher, and his ease, And braves the sultry beams, and gladly sees His gates thrown open, and his team abroad, The ready group attendant on his word, To turn the swarth, the quiv'ring load to rear, Or ply the busy rake, the land to clear. Summer's light garb itself now cumb'rous grown, Each his thin doublet in the shade throws down; Where oft the mastiff sculks with half-shut eye, And rouses at the stranger passing by; Whilst unrestrain'd the social converse flows, And every breast Love's powerful impulse knows, And rival wits with more than rustic grace Confess the presence of a pretty face. * Now, ere sweet Summer bids its long adieu, No triumph please, while rage and death destroy; Behold the sound oak table's massy frame For all that clear'd the crop, or till'd the ground, When o'er each field the flaming sunbeams play'd. Here once a year Distinction low'rs its crest, Such were the days-of days long past I sing, To leave them distanc'd in the maď'ning race, * E'en Giles, for all his cares and watchings past, And all his contests with the wintry blast, Claims a full share of that sweet praise bestow'd By gazing neighbours, when along the road, Or village green, his curly-coated throng Suspends the chorus of the spinner's song; When admiration's unaffected grace Lisps from the tongue, and beams in ev'ry face: Delightful moments!-sunshine, health, and joy, Play round, and cheer the elevated boy! "Another spring!" his heart exulting cries; "Another year! with promis'd blessings rise!" THE WIDOW TO HER HOUR-GLASS. COME, friend, I'll turn thee up again : Spring thirty times hath fed with rain At In frame of wood, On chest or window by my side: I've often watch'd thy streaming sand Still sliding down, Again heap'd up, then down again; While thus I spin and sometimes sing |