'Joint stock, you know, among the men, To drink at their own charges; So up they got full drive, and then

Went out to halloo largess.7

'And sure enough the noise they made!
But let me mind my tale;
We followed them, we wor'nt afraid,
We 'ad all been drinking ale.

'As they stood hallooing back to back,
We, lightly as a feather,

Went sliding round, and in a crack

Had pinned their coats together.

"T was near upon 't as light as noon;
"A largess," on the hill,

They shouted to the full round moon,
I think I hear 'em still!

But when they found the trick, my stars!
They well knew who to blame;

Our giggles turned to ha, ha, ha's,

He stopt,

for he's a fearful man

"By gom there's suffen 9 there!"
'And off set John, with all his might,

To chase me down the yard,
Till I was nearly gran'd 10 outright;
He hugged so woundly hard.

'Still they kept up the race and laugh,
And round the house we flew ;
But hark ye! the best fun by half
Was Simon arter Sue.

She cared not, dark nor light, not she,
So, near the dairy door

She passed a clean white hog, you see,
They'd kilt the day before.
High on the spirket" there it hung,
"Now, Susie what can save ye?"
Round the cold pig his arms he flung,

And cried, "Ah! here I have ye."

6 The farmers heard what Simon said,
And what a noise! good lack!
Some almost laughed themselves to dead,
And others clapt his back.

'We all at once began to tell

What fun we had aboard;

But Simon stood our jeers right well ;
He fell asleep and snored.

Then in his button-hole upright
Did Farmer Crouder put

A slip of paper twisted tight,
And held the candle to 't.

'It smoked and smoked beneath his nose,
The harmless blaze crept higher;
Till with a vengeance up he rose,—
Grace, Judie, Sue! fire, fire!

'The clock struck one-some talked of parting, Some said it was a sin,

And hitched their chairs;- but those for starting
Now let the moonlight in.

'Owd women, loitering for the nonce,"
12
Stood praising the fine weather;
The men-folks took the hint at once
To kiss them altogether.

'And out ran every soul beside,

13

A shanny-pated crew;
Owd folks could neither run nor hide,
So some ketched one, some tew.

'They skriggled and began to scold,

But laughing got the master;
Some quackling cried, "Let go your hold!"
The farmers held the faster.

All innocent, that I'll be sworn,
There wor'nt a bit of sorrow;
And women, if their gowns are torn,
Can mend them on the morrow.

"Our shadows helter-skelter danced

About the moonlight ground;

The wandering sheep, as on we pranced,
Got up and gazed around.

And well they might-till Farmer Cheerum,
Now with a hearty glee,

Bade all good morn as he came near 'em,
And then to bed went he.

Then off we strolled this way and that,
With merry voices ringing;
And echo answered us right pat,

As home we rambled singing.

'For, when we laughed, it laughed again,
And to our own doors followed!
"Yo, ho!" we cried; "Yo, ho!" so plain
The misty meadow hallooed.

That's all my tale, and all the fun;
Come, turn your wheels about;
My worsted, see! - that's nicely done,
Just held my story out!'

Poor Judie! thus time knits or spins
The worsted from life's ball!

Death stopped thy tales, and stopped thy pins, - And so he 'll serve us all.

NOTES, 1-13. Judie Twitchel lived with a relative of Bloomfield, at Honington. Horkey is the name given, in Suffolk, England, to the Harvest-Home Feast. - Hake, a sliding pot-hook; cop't, thrown; sitch a mort, such a number; 'lord,' the leader of the reapers, who collected the largess, and led the troop that went forth to halloo, after an ancient, perhaps a heathen custom; neat-house, cowhouse; suffen, something; gran'd, strangled; spirket, iron hook; nonce, purpose; shanny, giddy.

QUARLES'S PSALM 42: 2.

LONGING TO SEE GOD.

WHAT is the soul the better to be tined

[be

With holy fire? what boots it to be coined
With Heaven's own stamp? what 'vantage can there
To souls of heaven-descended pedigree,
More than to beasts that grovel? are not they
Fed by the Almighty's hand? and every day
Filled with his blessings too? do they not see
God in his creatures, as direct as we?

Do they not taste Thee? hear Thee? nay, what sense
Is not partaker of thy excellence?

What more do we? alas! what serves our reason,
But, like dark lanterns, to accomplish treason
With greater closeness? It affords no light,
Brings thee no nearer to our purblind sight:
No pleasure rises up the least degree,
Great God! but in the nearer view of Thee!
If those refulgent beams of heaven's great light
Gild not the day, what is the day but night?
The drowsy shepherd sleeps, flowers droop and fade;
The birds are sullen, and the beasts are sad :
But if bright Titan dart his golden ray,
And with his riches glorify the day,

The jolly shepherds pipe; flowers freshly spring;
The beasts grow gamesome, and the birds they sing.
Thou art my sun, great God! O, when shall I
View the full beams of thy meridian eye?
Draw, draw this fleshly curtain, that denies
The gracious presence of thy glorious eyes;
Or give me faith; and, by the eye of grace,
I shall behold Thee, though not face to face.

POPE'S "MUTUAL DEPENDENCE." HAS God, thou fool! worked solely for thy good, Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food? Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn For him as kindly spreads the flowery lawn: Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings? Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat? Loves of his own and raptures swell the note. The bounding steed you pompously bestride Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride. Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain? The birds of heaven shall vindicate their grain. Thine the full harvest of the golden year? Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer: The hog, that ploughs not, nor obeys thy call, Lives on the labors of this lord of all.

Know, Nature's children all divide her care;

The fur that warms a monarch warmed a bear.
While man exclaims, 'See all things for my use!'
'See man for mine!' replies a pampered goose:
And just as short of reason he must fall,
Who thinks all made for one, not one for all.

Grant that the powerful still the weak control;

Be man the wit and tyrant of the whole :
Nature that tyrant checks; he only knows
And helps another creature's wants and woes.
Say, will the falcon, stooping from above,
Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove?
Admires the jay the insect's gilded wings?
Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings?
Man cares for all: to birds he gives his woods,
To beasts his pastures, and to fish his floods;
For some his interest prompts him to provide,
For more his pleasure, yet for more his pride :
All feed on one vain patron, and enjoy
The extensive blessing of his luxury.
That very life his learned hunger craves,
He saves from famine, from the savage saves;
Nay, feasts the animal he dooms his feast,
And till he ends the being, makes it blest;
Which sees no more the stroke, or feels the pain,
Than favored man by touch ethereal slain.
The creature had his feast of life before;
Thou too must perish, when thy feast is o'er!

GRAHAME'S "SABBATH."

HAIL, Sabbath! thee I hail!- the poor man's day! On other days the man of toil is doomed To eat his joyless bread lonely, the ground Both seat and board, screened from the winter's cold And summer's heat by neighboring hedge or tree; But on this day, embosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meals with those he loves; With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy Of giving thanks to God—not thanks of form, A word and a grimace, but reverently With covered face and upward, earnest eye! Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail the poor man's day! The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air pure from the city's smoke; While wandering slowly up the river side, He meditates on Him whose power he marks In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around the roots; and while he thus surveys With elevated joy each rural charm,

He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
To reach those realms where Sabbath never ends.**

AUTUMN.

ARGUMENT.

Acorns. Hogs in the wood. Wheat-sowing. The church. Village girls. The mad girl. The bird-boy's hut. Disappointments; reflections, &c. Euston-hall. Fox-hunting. Old Trouncer. Long nights. A welcome to Winter.

SUBJECT; SCENES OF AUTUMN.SWINEHERD; HUNTSMAN.

AGAIN, the year's decline, midst storms and floods The thundering chase, the yellow fading woods, Invites my song; that fain would boldly tell Of upland coverts, and the echoing dell, By turns resounding loud, at eve and morn, The swineherd's halloo, or the huntsman's horn. NEW-FALLEN MAST; SOW AND PIGS FEEDING ON ACORNS.

No more the fields with scattered grain supply
The restless wandering tenants of the sty;
From oak to oak they run with eager haste,
And, wrangling, share the first delicious taste
Of fallen acorns; yet but thinly found,

Till the strong gale have shook them to the ground;
It comes; and roaring woods obedient wave:
Their home well pleased the joint adventurers
leave:

The trudging sow leads forth her numerous young, Playful, and white, and clean, the briers among, Till briers and thorns, increasing, fence them round, Where last year's mouldering leaves bestrew the ground;

And o'er their heads, loud lashed by furious squalls, Bright from their cups the rattling treasure falls.

THE POOL; THE HAUNT OF THE WILD DUCK; LUDICROUS FRIGHT OF THE LITTLE PIGS.

Hot thirsty food! whence doubly sweet and cool
The welcome margin of some rush-grown pool,
The wild duck's lonely haunt, whose jealous eye
Guards every point; who sits prepared to fly,
On the calm bosom of her little lake,
Too closely screened for ruffian winds to shake;
And as the bold intruders press around,
At once she starts and rises with a bound:
With bristles raised the sudden noise they hear,
And, ludicrously wild, and winged with fear,
The herd decamp with more than swinish speed,
And snorting dash through sedge, and rush, and
reed;

Through tangling thickets headlong on they go,
Then stop and listen for their fancied foe :

The hindmost still the growing panic spreads,
Repeated fright the first alarm succeeds,
Till folly's wages, wounds and thorns, they reap:
Yet glorying in their fortunate escape,
Their groundless terrors by degrees soon cease,
And night's dark reign restores their wonted peace.

THE HOG'S NEST AT NIGHT; THE PHEASANT; GILES'S VAIN
SEARCH FOR THE SWINE.

For now the gale subsides, and from each bough The roosting pheasant's short but frequent crow Invites to rest; and huddling side by side The herd in closest ambush seek to hide ; Seek some warm slope with shagged moss o'erspread, Dried leaves their copious covering and their bed. In vain may Giles, through gathering glooms that And solemn silence, urge his piercing call; [fall, Whole days and nights they tarry midst their store, Nor quit the woods till oaks can yield no more.

WINTER-WHEAT; HOW TO PROTECT IT WHEN SOWN IN AUTUMN.

Beyond bleak Winter's rage, beyond the Spring
That rolling earth's unvarying course will bring,
Who tills the ground, looks on with mental eye,
And sees next Summer's sheaves and cloudless sky;
And even now, whilst Nature's beauty dies,
Deposits seed, and bids new harvests rise;
Seed well prepared, and warmed with glowing lime,
'Gainst earth-bred grubs, and cold, and lapse of
time:

For searching frosts and various ills invade,
Whilst wintry months depress the springing blade.
AUTUMN PLOUGHING; MANURE PLOUGHED IN; GILES'S LA-
BORS IN THE BARN-YARD. SABBATH BELLS.

The plough moves heavily, and strong the soil,
And clogging harrows with augmented toil
Dive deep; and clinging, mixes with the mould
A fattening treasure from the nightly fold,
And all the cow-yard's highly valued store,
That late bestrewed the blackened surface o'er.
No idling hours are here, when fancy trims
Her dancing taper over outstretched limbs,
And in her thousand thousand colors drest,
Plays round the grassy couch of noontide rest:
Here Giles for hours of indolence atoncs
With strong exertion, and with weary bones,
And knows no leisure; till the distant chime
Of Sabbath bells he hears at sermon time,
That down the brook sound sweetly in the gale,
Or strike the rising hill, or skim the dale.

THE PARSON'S HORSE; THE RUDE CHAPEL; DAWS. Nor his alone the sweets of case to taste: Kind rest extends to all; save one poor beast, That, true to time and pace, is doomed to plod, To bring the pastor to the house of God: Mean structure; where no bones of heroes lie! The rude inelegance of poverty

Reigns here alone else why that roof of straw?

Those narrow windows with the frequent flaw?
O'er whose low cells the dock and mallow spread,
And rampant nettles lift the spiry head,
Whilst from the hollows of the tower on high
The gray-capped daws in saucy legions fly.

THE GRAVES ABOUT THE CHAPEL; SUNDAY TALK OF FARMERS;
BOYS' SPORTS IN THE GRAVE-YARD.

Round these lone walls assembling neighbors meet, And tread departed friends beneath their feet; And new-briered graves, that prompt the secret sigh, Show each the spot where he himself must lie. Midst timely greetings village news goes round, Of crops late shorn, or crops that deck the ground; Experienced ploughmen in the circle join; While sturdy boys, in feats of strength to shine, With pride elate, their young associates brave To jump from hollow-sounding grave to grave; Then close consulting, each his talent lends To plan fresh sports when tedious service ends.

THE VILLAGE MAIDS; THEIR ERRAND AT CHURCH. Hither at times, with cheerfulness of soul, Sweet village maids from neighboring hamlets stroll, That, like the light-heeled does o'er lawns that rove, Look shyly curious; ripening into love; For love's their errand : hence the tints that glow On either cheek an heightened lustre know : When, conscious of their charms, e'en Age looks sly; And rapture beams from Youth's observant eye. STORY OF CRAZED POLLY RAYNOR; HER DRESS, WHIMS, MISERY, WILDNESS, AND PITEOUS INSANITY. The pride of such a party, Nature's pride, Was lovely Poll ;1 who innocently tried, With hat of airy shape and ribbons gay, Love to inspire, and stand in Hymen's way: But ere her twentieth summer could expand, Or youth was rendered happy with her hand, Her mind's serenity was lost and gone, Her eye grew languid, and she wept alone; Yet causeless seemed her grief; for quick restrained, Mirth followed loud, or indignation reigned: Whims wild and simple led her from her home, The heath, the common, or the fields, to roam: Terror and joy alternate ruled her hours; Now blithe she sung, and gathered useless flowers; Now plucked a tender twig from every bough, To whip the hovering demons from her brow. Ill-fated maid! thy guiding spark is fled, And lasting wretchedness awaits thy bed Thy bed of straw! for mark, where even now O'er their lost child afflicted parents bow; Their woe she knows not, but, perversely coy, Inverted customs yield her sullen joy. Her midnight meals in secrecy she takes, Low muttering to the moon, that rising breaks Through night's dark gloom : -0, how much more forlorn

Her night, that knows of no returning dawn! —

1 Mary Raynor, of Ixworth Thorp, or Village.