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In order to make haste to sell and eat;
For there is certainly a charm in meat;
And in rebellious tones will stomachs speak,
That have not tafted victuals for a week.
But yet there are a mercenary crew
Who value fome no more than an old shoe,
Provided for their daubs they get a sale ;
Just like the man—but stay—I'll tell the tale. }
A fellow in a market town,
Most musical, cry'd razors up and down,

And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence ;
Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap,
And, for the money, quite a heap,

As ev'ry man would buy, with cash and sense.
A country bumpkin the great offer heard :
Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a broad black beard,

That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose,
With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid,
And proudly to himself, in whispers, faid,

• This rascal stole thé razors, I suppose.
" No matter if the fellow be a knave,
“ Provided that the razors fhave;

“ It certainly will be a monstrous prize."
So home the clown with his good fortune went,
Smiling, in heart and soul content,

And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lather'd from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,

Just like a hedger cutting furze:
'Twas a vile razor!-then the rest he try'd
All were impostors" Ah,” Hodge figh’d,

“ I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse !" In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces,

He cut, and dug, and winc'd, and stamp'd, and swore, Brought blood, and danc’d, blasphem’d, and made wry

faces,
And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er.
His muzzle form'd of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff:

So kept it-laughing at the feel and fuds :

Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws,
Vowing the direft vengeance, with clench'd claws,

On the rank cheat that sold the goods. “ Razors! a vile confounded dog,

“ Not fit to scrape a hog!" Hodge sought the fellow_found him—and begun : “ P’rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,

That People flay themselves out of their lives : " You rascal !' for an hour have I been grubbing, “ Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing,

“ With razors just like oyster-knives. “ Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave, “ To cry up razors that can't shave.“ Friend," quoth the razor-man, “ I'm not a knave : “ As for the razors you have bought, Upon my foul I never thought

" That they would have." « Not think they'd shave !" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring

eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; 6. What were they made for then, you dog?” he cries.

“ Made !" quoth the fellow, with a smile—" to sell.

66

[graphic]

THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

ELEGY.
Written in a Country Church-Yard.

BY MR. GRAY.

,

HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

:, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the fight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ;
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,

The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,

Moleft her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her ev’ning care; No children run to lisp their fire's return,

Or climb his knees the envy'd kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; How jocund did they drive their team afield !

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,

The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour;

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud! impute to these the fault,

If Mem’ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can story'd um, or animated bust,

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath ? Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft,

Or Flati’ry foothe thé dull cold ear of death ? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fre;
Hands that the rod of empire might have fway'd,

Or wak'd to ecstacy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of pureft ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,

The little tyrant of his fields withstood,"
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of liftning fenates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

[3]

Their fot forbade; nor circumscrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;. Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride

With incense kindled at the Muse’s-flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,

Their fober wishes never learnt to stray ; Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e’en these bones from insult to protect,

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,

Implores the passing tribute of a figh. Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter'd Muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply, And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralift to die. For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing anxious being e'er resign’d, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires ;
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonourd dead,

Dost in those lines their artless tales relate,
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply

some hoary-headed swain may say, « Oft have we seen him, at the peep

of dawn, Brushing with hafty steps the dews away,

“ To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. " There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,

" That wreathes its old fantastic root so high, * His listless length at noontide would he stretch,

" And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

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