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So now I am an orphan boy,
With nought below my heart to cheer;
No mother's love, no father's joy,
Nor kin nor kind to wipe the tear.
My lodging is the cold, cold ground;
I eat the bread of charity;
And, when the kiss of love goes round,
There is no kiss of love for me.
I would not have a llave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That linews bought and sold have ever earn'd.
No: dear as freedom is,
I had much rather be myself the slave,
And wear the bonds, than faften them on him.
The Labour of Idleness.—Day, a Pastoral.
The wretch who digs the mine for bread,
Or ploughs, that others may be fed,
Feels less fatigue than that decreed
To him who cannot think or read.
A PASTORAL IN THREE PARTS.
In the barn the tenant cock,
Close to partlet perch'd on high,
Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock)
Jucund that the morning 's nigh.
Swiftly, from the mountain's brow,
Shadows, nurs’d by night, retire;
And the peeping sun-beam, now,
Paints with gold the village spire,
Day, a Pastoral.
From the low-roof'd cottage ridge
See the chatt'ring swallow spring;
Darting through the one-arch'd bridge,
Quick she dips her dappled wing.
Now the pine-tree's waving top
Gently meets the morning gale ;
Kidlings, now, begin to crop
Daisies on the dewy dale.
Fervid on the glitt'ring flood
Now the noontide radiance glows:
Drooping o'er its infant bud,
Not a dew-drop's left the rose.
By the brook the shepherd dines,
From the fierce meridian heat
Shelter'd by the branching pines
Pendent o’er his graffy feat.
Cattle court the breezes bland,
Where the streamlet wanders cool ;
Or in languid silence stand
Midway in the marshy pool.
Not a leaf has leave to stir,
Nature 's lull’d, serene, and fill;
Quiet e’en the shepherd's cur,
Sleeping on the heath-clad hill.
Languid is the landscape round,
Till the fresh descending shower,
Grateful to the thirsty ground,
Raises every fainting flower.
Now the hill, the hedge, are green,
Now the warblers' throats in tune ;
Blithesome is the verdant scene,
Brighten'd by the beams of noon.
O'ER the heath the heifer strays Free (the furrowed talk is done); Now the village windows blaze, Burnish'd by the setting fun.
Now he sets behind the hill,
Sinking from a golden sky:
Can the pencil's mimic skill
Copy the refulgent dye?
Trudging as the plowmen go,
(To the smoking hamlet bound)
Giant-like their shadows grow
Lengthen’d on the level ground.
Where the rising forest fpreads
Shelter for the lordly dome,
To their high-built airy beds
See the rooks returning home!
As the lark, with varied tune,
Carols to the evening loud,
Mark the mild resplendent moon
Breaking through a parted cloud !
Now the lonely howlet peeps
From the barn or twisted brake;
And the blue mist slowly creeps,
Curling on the silver lake.
As the trout, in speckled pride,
Playful from its bosom springs,
To the banks a suffled tide
Verges in successive rings.