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In order to make haste to sell and eat;
And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence ;
As ev'ry man would buy, with cash and sense.
That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose,
• This rascal stole thé razors, I suppose.
“ It certainly will be a monstrous prize."
And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes.
Just like a hedger cutting furze:
“ 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
So kept it-laughing at the feel and fuds :
Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws,
On the rank cheat that sold the goods. “ Razors! a vile confounded dog,
“ Not fit to scrape a hog!" Hodge fought the fellow_found him—and begun: “ P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogrie, 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,
soul I never thought *«That they would have.” “ Not think they'd have !" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring
eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; 66 What were they made for then, you dog?” he cries.
“ Made !" quoth the fellow, with a smile—" to sell.”
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.
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ;
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Moleft her ancient solitary reign.
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;
Or wak'd to ecstacy the living lyre.
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of pureft ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,"
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,
Their fot forbade; nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; 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 sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial ftill 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 the strews,
That teach the rustic moralist 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 in our ashes live their wonted fires.
Dost in those lines their artless tales relate,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fatem
á 'Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn,
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.