The people rising sing, with harp, with harp,
And voice of psalms; harmoniously attuned
The various voices blend; the long-drawn aisles,
At every close, the lingering strain prolong.
And now the tubes a softened stop controls;
In softer harmony the people join,

While liquid whispers from yon orphan band,
Recall the soul from adoration's trance,
And fill the eye with pity's gentle tears.
Again the organ-peal, loud, rolling, meets
The hallelujahs of the quire. Sublime
A thousand notes symphoniously ascend,
As if the whole were one, suspended high
In air, soaring heavenward: afar they float,
Wafting glad tidings to the sick man's couch:
Raised on his arm, he lists the cadence close,
Yet thinks he hears it still his heart is cheered;
He smiles on death; but ah! a wish will rise-
'Would I were now beneath that echoing roof!
No lukewarm accents from my lips should flow;
My heart would sing; and many a Sabbath-day
My steps should thither turn; or, wandering far
In solitary paths, where wild flowers blow,
There would I bless His name who led me forth
From death's dark vale, to walk amid those sweets-
Who gives the bloom of health once more to glow
Upon this cheek, and lights this languid eye.'
It is not only in the sacred fane

That homage should be paid to the Most High;
There is a temple, one not made with hands,
The vaulted firmament. Far in the woods,
Almost beyond the sound of city chime,
At intervals heard through the breezeless air;
When not the limberest leaf is seen to move,
Save where the linnet lights upon the spray;
Where not a flow'ret bends its little stalk,
Save when the bee alights upon the bloom-
There, rapt in gratitude, in joy, and love,
The man of God will pass the Sabbath-noon;
Silence his praise: his disembodied thoughts,
Loosed from the load of words, will high ascend
Beyond the empyreal.

Nor yet less pleasing at the heavenly throne,
The Sabbath service of the shepherd boy!
In some lone glen, where every sound is lulled
To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill,
Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry,
Stretched on the sward, he reads of Jesse's son ;
Or sheds a tear o'er him to Egypt sold,
And wonders why he weeps: the volume closed,
With thyme-sprig laid between the leaves, he sings
The sacred lays, his weekly lesson conned
With meikle care beneath the lowly roof,
Where humble lore is learnt, where humble worth
Pines unrewarded by a thankless state.
Thus reading, hymning, all alone, unseen,
The shepherd-boy the Sabbath holy keeps,
Till on the heights he marks the straggling bands
Returning homeward from the house of prayer.
In peace they home resort. Oh, blissful days!
When all men worship God as conscience wills.
Far other times our fathers' grandsires knew,
A virtuous race to godliness devote.

What though the sceptic's scorn hath dared to soil
The record of their fame! What though the men
Of worldly minds have dared to stigmatise
The sister-cause, Religion and the Law,
With Superstition's name!-yet, yet their deeds,
Their constancy in torture and in death-
These on tradition's tongue still live, these shall
On history's honest page be pictured bright
To latest times. Perhaps some bard, whose muse
Disdains the servile strain of fashion's quire,
May celebrate their unambitious names.
With them each day was holy, every hour
They stood prepared to die, a people doomed

To death-old men, and youths, and simple maids.
With them each day was holy; but that morn
On which the angel said, 'See where the Lord
Was laid,' joyous arose-to die that day
Was bliss. Long ere the dawn, by devious ways,
O'er hills, through woods, o'er dreary wastes, they
sought

The upland moors, where rivers, there but brooks,
Dispart to different seas. Fast by such brooks
A little glen is sometimes scooped, a plat

With green sward gay, and flowers that strangers seem
Amid the heathery wild, that all around
Fatigues the eye: in solitudes like these
Thy persecuted children, Scotia, foiled
A tyrant's and a bigot's bloody laws;
There, leaning on his spear (one of the array
That in the times of old had scathed the rose
On England's banner, and had powerless struck
The infatuate monarch and his wavering host,
Yet ranged itself to aid his son dethroned),
The lyart veteran heard the word of God
By Cameron thundered, or by Renwick poured
In gentle stream: then rose the song, the loud
Acclaim of praise; the wheeling plover ceased
Her plaint; the solitary place was glad.
And on the distant cairns, the watcher's ear
Caught doubtfully at times the breeze-borne note.
But years more gloomy followed, and no more
The assembled people dared, in face of day,
To worship God, or even at the dead

Of night, save when the wintry storm raved fierce,
And thunder-peals compelled the men of blood
To couch within their dens; then dauntlessly
The scattered few would meet, in some deep dell
By rocks o'er-canopied, to hear the voice,
Their faithful pastor's voice: he by the gleam
Of sheeted lightning oped the sacred book,
And words of comfort spake: over their souls
His accents soothing came as to her young
The heath-fowl's plumes, when at the close of eve
She gathers in mournful her brood dispersed
By murderous sport, and o'er the remnant spreads
Fondly her wings, close nestling 'neath her breast
They cherished cower amid the purple blooms.

But wood and wild, the mountain and the dale,
The house of prayer itself, no place inspires
Emotions more accordant with the day,
Than does the field of graves, the land of rest.
Oft at the close of evening-prayer, the toll,
The funeral-toll, announces solemnly
The service of the tomb; the homeward crowds
Divide on either hand: the pomp draws near;
The choir to meet the dead go forth, and sing,
'I am the resurrection and the life."

Ah ine! these youthful bearers robed in white,
They tell a mournful tale; some blooming friend
Is gone, dead in her prime of years-'twas she,
The poor man's friend, who, when she could not give,
With angel tongue pleaded to those who could;
With angel-tongue and mild beseeching eye,
That ne'er besought in vain, save when she prayed
For longer life, with heart resigned to die-
Rejoiced to die, for happy visions blessed
Her voyage's last days, and hovering round,
Alighted on her soul, giving presage
That heaven was nigh. Oh what a burst
Of rapture from her lips! what tears of joy
Her heavenward eyes suffused! Those eyes are closed;
Yet all her loveliness is not yet flown:
She smiled in death, and still her cold pale face
Retains that smile; as when a waveless lake,
In which the wintry stars all bright appear,
Is sheeted by a nightly frost with ice,
Still it reflects the face of heaven unchanged,
Unruffled by the breeze or sweeping blast.

305

62

Oh Scotland! much I love thy tranquil dales;
But most on Sabbath eve, when low the sun
Slants through the upland copse, 'tis my delight,
Wandering and stopping oft, to hear the song
Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs;
Or when the simple service ends, to hear
The lifted latch, and mark the gray-haired man,
The father and the priest, walk forth alone
Into his garden-plat or little field,

To commune with his God in secret prayer-
To bless the Lord, that in his downward years
His children are about him: sweet, meantime,
The thrush that sings upon the aged thorn,
Brings to his view the days of youthful years,
When that same aged thorn was but a bush.
Nor is the contrast between youth and age
To him a painful thought; he joys to think
His journey near a close; heaven is his home.

And he who cried to Lazarus Come forth!'
Will, when the Sabbath of the tomb is past,
Call forth the dead, and reunite the dust
(Transformed and purified) to angel souls.
Ecstatic hope! belief! conviction firm!
How grateful 'tis to recollect the time
When hope arose to faith! Faintly at first
The heavenly voice is heard. Then by degrees
Its music sounds perpetual in the heart.
Thus he, who all the gloomy winter long
Has dwelt in city crowds, wandering afield
Betimes on Sabbath morn, ere yet the spring
Unfold the daisy's bud, delighted hears

The first lark's note, faint yet, and short the song,
Checked by the chill ungenial northern breeze;
But, as the sun ascends, another springs,
And still another soars on loftier wing,
Till all o'erhead, the joyous choir unseen,
Poised welkin-high, harmonious fills the air,
As if it were a link 'tween earth and heaven.

[A Spring Sabbath Walk.]

Most earnest was his voice! most mild his look,
As with raised hands he blessed his parting flock.
He is a faithful pastor of the poor;

He thinks not of himself; his Master's words,
'Feed, feed my sheep,' are ever at his heart,
The cross of Christ is aye before his eyes.
Oh how I love with melted soul to leave
The house of prayer, and wander in the fields
Alone! What though the opening spring be chill!
What though the lark, checked in his airy path,
Eke out his song, perched on the fallow clod,
That still o'ertops the blade! What though no branch
Have spread its foliage, save the willow wand,
That dips its pale leaves in the swollen stream!
What though the clouds oft lower! their threats but end
In sunny showers, that scarcely fill the folds
Of moss-couched violet, or interrupt
The merle's dulcet pipe-melodious bird!
He, hid behind the milk-white sloe-thorn spray
(Whose early flowers anticipate the leaf),
Welcomes the time of buds, the infant year.

Sweet is the sunny nook to which my steps
Have brought me, hardly conscious where I roamed,
Unheeding where so lovely, all around,
The works of God, arrayed in vernal smile!

Oft at this season, musing I prolong

My devious range, till, sunk from view, the sun
Emblaze, with upward-slanting ray, the breast
And wing unquivering of the wheeling lark,
Descending vocal from her latest flight,
While, disregardful of yon lonely star-
The harbinger of chill night's glittering host-
Sweet redbreast, Scotia's Philomela, chants
In desultory strains his evening hymn.

[A Summer Sabbath Walk.]

Delightful is this loneliness; it calms

My heart pleasant the cool beneath these elms
That throw across the stream a moveless shade.
Here nature in her midnoon whisper speaks;
How peaceful every sound!-the ring-dove's plaint,
Moaned from the forest's gloomiest retreat,
While every other woodland lay is mute,

Save when the wren flits from her down-coved nest,
And from the root-sprigs trills her ditty clear-
The grasshopper's oft-pausing chirp the buzz,
Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled bee,

That soon as loosed booms with full twang away-
The sudden rushing of the minnow shoal
Scared from the shallows by my passing tread.
Dimpling the water glides, with here and there
A glossy fly, skimming in circlets gay

The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed trout
Watches his time to spring; or from above,
Some feathered dam, purveying 'mong the boughs,
Darts from her perch, and to her plumeless brood
Bears off the prize. Sad emblem of man's lot!
He, giddy insect, from his native leaf
(Where safe and happily he might have lurked)
Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings,
Forgetful of his origin, and worse,
Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream,
And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape,
Buoyant he flutters but a little while,
Mistakes the inverted image of the sky
For heaven itself, and, sinking, meets his fate.
Now, let me trace the stream up to its source
Among the hills, its runnel by degrees
Diminishing, the murmur turns a tinkle.
Closer and closer still the banks approach,
Tangled so thick with pleaching bramble shoots,
With brier and hazel branch, and hawthorn spray,
That, fain to quit the dingle, glad I mount
Into the open air: grateful the breeze

That fans my throbbing temples! smiles the plain
Spread wide below: how sweet the placid view!
But, oh! more sweet the thought, heart-soothing
thought,

That thousands and ten thousands of the sons
Of toil partake this day the common joy
Of rest, of peace, of viewing hill and dale,
Of breathing in the silence of the woods,
And blessing him who gave the Sabbath-day.
Yes! my heart flutters with a freer throb,
To think that now the townsman wanders forth
Among the fields and meadows, to enjoy
The coolness of the day's decline, to see
His children sport around, and simply pull
The flower and weed promiscuous, as a boon
Which proudly in his breast they smiling fix.

Again I turn me to the hill, and trace
The wizard stream, now scarce to be discerned,
Woodless its banks, but green with ferny leaves,
And thinly strewed with heath-bells up and down.

Now, when the downward sun has left the glens,
Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced
Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic
The shepherd's shadow thrown athwart the chasm,
As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies.
How deep the hush! the torrent's channel dry,
Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt.
But hark a plaintive sound floating along!
'Tis from yon heath-roofed shieling; now it dies
Away, now rises full; it is the song
Which He, who listens to the hallelujahs
Of choiring seraphim, delights to hear;
It is the music of the heart, the voice
Of venerable age, of guileless youth,
In kindly circle seated on the ground
Before their wicker door. Behold the man!

The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks
Beam in the parting ray; before him lies,
Upon the smooth-cropt sward, the open book,
His comfort, stay, and ever-new delight;
While heedless at a side, the lisping boy
Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch.

[An Autumn Sabbath Walk.]

When homeward bands their several ways disperse,
I love to linger in the narrow field

Of rest, to wander round from tomb to tomb,
And think of some who silent sleep below.
Sad sighs the wind that from these ancient elms
Shakes showers of leaves upon the withered grass:
The sere and yellow wreaths, with eddying sweep,
Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillocked graves.
But list that moan! 'tis the poor blind man's dog,
His guide for many a day, now come to mourn
The master and the friend-conjunction rare!
A man, indeed, he was of gentle soul,

Though bred to brave the deep: the lightning's flash
Had dimmed, not closed, his mild but sightless eyes.
He was a welcome guest through all his range
(It was not wide); no dog would bay at him:
Children would run to meet him on his way,
And lead him to a sunny seat, and climb
His knee, and wonder at his oft-told tales.
Then would he teach the elfins how to plait
The rushy cap and crown, or sedgy ship:
And I have seen him lay his tremulous hand
Upon their heads, while silent moved his lips.
Peace to thy spirit, that now looks on me
Perhaps with greater pity than I felt
To see thee wandering darkling on thy way,
But let me quit this melancholy spot,
And roam where nature gives a parting smile.
As yet the blue bells linger on the sod
That copse the sheepfold ring; and in the woods
A second blow of many flowers appears,
Flowers faintly tinged, and breathing no perfume.
But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland wreath
That circles Autumn's brow. The ruddy haws
Now clothe the half-leafed thorn; the bramble bends
Beneath its jetty load; the hazel hangs
With auburn bunches, dipping in the stream
That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow
The leaf-strewn banks: oft, statue-like, I gaze,
In vacancy of thought, upon that stream,
And chase, with dreaming eye, the eddying foam,
Or rowan's clustered branch, or harvest sheaf,
Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood.

[A Winter Sabbath Walk.]

How dazzling white the snowy scene! deep, deep
The stillness of the winter Sabbath day-

Not even a foot-fall heard. Smooth are the fields,
Each hollow pathway level with the plain :
Hid are the bushes, save that here and there
Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom.
High-ridged the whirled drift has almost reached
The powdered key-stone of the church-yard porch.
Mute hangs the hooded bell; the tombs lie buried ;
No step approaches to the house of prayer.

The flickering fall is o'er: the clouds disperse,
And show the sun, hung o'er the welkin's verge,
Shooting a bright but ineffectual beam
On all the sparkling waste. Now is the time
To visit nature in her grand attire.
Though perilous the mountainous ascent,
A noble recompense the danger brings.
How beautiful the plain stretched far below,
Unvaried though it be, save by yon stream
With azure windings, or the leafless wood!
But what the beauty of the plain, compared

To that sublimity which reigus enthroned,
Holding joint rule with solitude divine,
Among yon rocky fells that bid defiance
To steps the most adventurously bold?
There silence dwells profound; or if the cry
Of high-poised eagle break at times the hush,
The mantled echoes no response return.

But let me now explore the deep-sunk dell.
No foot-print, save the covey's or the flock's,
Is seen along the rill, where marshy springs
Still rear the grassy blade of vivid green.
Beware, ye shepherds, of these treacherous haunts,
Nor linger there too long: the wintry day
Soon closes; and full oft a heavier fall,
Heaped by the blast, fills up the sheltered glen,
While, gurgling deep below, the buried rill
Mines for itself a snow-coved way! Oh, then,
Your helpless charge drive from the tempting spot,
And keep them on the bleak hill's stormy side,
Where night-winds sweep the gathering drift away:
So the great Shepherd leads the heavenly flock
From faithless pleasures, full into the storms
Of life, where long they bear the bitter blast,
Until at length the vernal sun looks forth,
Bedimmed with showers; then to the pastures green
He brings them where the quiet waters glide,
The stream of life, the Siloah of the soul.

A Scottish Country Wedding.

[From British Georgics."]

Now, 'mid the general glow of opening blooms,
Coy maidens blush consent, nor slight the gift
From neighbouring fair brought home, till now re-
fused.

Swains, seize the sunny hours to make your hay,
For woman's smiles are fickle as the sky:
Bespeak the priest, bespeak the minstrel too,
Ere May, to wedlock hostile, stop the banns.
The appointed day arrives, a blithesome day
Of festive jollity; yet not devoid
Of soft regret to her about to leave
A parent's roof; yes, at the word, join hands,
A tear reluctant starts, as she beholds
Her mother's looks, her father's silvery hairs.
But serious thoughts take flight, when from the barn,
Soon as the bands are knit, a jocund sound
Strikes briskly up, and nimble feet beat fast
Upon the earthen floor. Through many a reel
With various steps uncouth, some new, some old,
Some all the dancer's own, with Highland flings
Not void of grace, the lads and lasses strive
To dance each other down; and oft when quite
Forespent, the fingers merrily cracked, the bound,
The rallying shout well-timed, and sudden change
To sprightlier tune, revive the flagging foot,
And make it feel as if it tripped in air.

When all are tired, and all his stock of reels
The minstrel o'er and o'er again has run,
The cheering flagon circles round; meanwhile,
A softened tune, and slower measure, flows
Sweet from the strings, and stills the boisterous joy.
Maybe The Bonny Broom of Cowdenknowes
(If simply played, though not with master hand),
Or Patie's Mill, or Bush Aboon Traquair,
Inspire a tranquil gladness through the breast;
Or that most mournful strain, the sad lament
For Flodden-field, drives mirth from every face,
And makes the firmest heart strive hard to curb
The rising tear; till, with unpausing bow,
The blithe strathspey springs up, reminding some
Of nights when Gow's old arm (nor old the tale),
Unceasing, save when reeking cans went round,
Made heart and heel leap light as bounding roe..
Alas! no more shall we behold that look
So venerable, yet so blent with mirth,

And festive joy sedate; that ancient garb
Unvaried-tartan hose and bonnet blue!
No more shall beauty's partial eye draw forth
The full intoxication of his strain,
Mellifluous, strong, exuberantly rich!
No more amid the pauses of the dance
Shall he repeat those measures, that in days
Of other years could soothe a falling prince,
And light his visage with a transient smile
Of melancholy joy-like autumn sun
Gilding a sere tree with a passing beam!
Or play to sportive children on the green
Dancing at gloaming hour; or willing cheer,
With strains unbought, the shepherd's bridal day!
But light now failing, glimmering candles shine
In ready chandeliers of moulded clay
Stuck round the walls, displaying to the view
The ceiling rich with cobweb-drapery hung.
Meanwhile, from mill and smiddy, field and barn,
Fresh groups come hastening in; but of them all,
The miller bears the gree, as rafter high

He leaps, and, lighting, shakes a dusty cloud all round.
In harmless merriment, protracted long,
The hours glide by. At last, the stocking thrown,
And duly every gossip rite performed,

Youths, maids, and matrons, take their several ways;
While drouthy carles, waiting for the moon,
Sit down again, and quaff till daylight dawn.

The Impressed Sailor Boy.

[From the Birds of Scotland."] Low in a glen, Down which a little stream had furrowed deep, 'Tween meeting birchen boughs, a shelvy channel, And brawling mingled with the western tide; Far up that stream, almost beyond the roar Of storm-bulged breakers, foaming o'er the rocks With furious dash, a lowly dwelling lurked, Surrounded by a circlet of the stream. Before the wattled door, a greensward plat, With daisies gay, pastured a playful lamb; A pebbly path, deep worn, led up the hill, Winding among the trees, by wheel untouched, Save when the winter fuel was brought homeOne of the poor man's yearly festivals. On every side it was a sheltered spot, So high and suddenly the woody steeps Arose. One only way, downward the stream, Just o'er the hollow, 'tween the meeting boughs, The distant wave was seen, with now and then The glimpse of passing sail; but when the breeze Crested the distant wave, this little nook Was all so calm, that, on the limberest spray, The sweet bird chanted motionless, the leaves At times scarce fluttering. Here dwelt a pair, Poor, humble, and content; one son alone, Their William, happy lived at home to bless Their downward years; he, simple youth, With boyish fondness, fancied he could love A seaman's life, and with the fishers sailed, To try their ways far 'mong the western isles, Far as St Kilda's rock-walled shore abrupt, O'er which he saw ten thousand pinions wheel Confused, dimming the sky: these dreary shores Gladly he left-he had a homeward heart: No more his wishes wander to the waves. But still he loves to cast a backward look, And tell of all he saw, of all he learned; Of pillared Staffa, lone Iona's isle, Where Scotland's kings are laid; of Lewis, Skye, And of the mainland mountain-circled lochs; And he would sing the rowers timing chant And chorus wild. Once on a summer's eve, When low the sun behind the Highland hills Was almost set, he sung that song to cheer

The aged folks; upon the inverted quern
The father sat; the mother's spindle hung
Forgot, and backward twirled the half-spun thread;
Listening with partial, well-pleased look, she gazed
Upon her son, and inly blessed the Lord,
That he was safe returned. Sudden a noise
Bursts rushing through the trees; a glance of steel
Dazzles the eye, and fierce the savage band
Glare all around, then single out their prey.
In vain the mother clasps her darling boy;
In vain the sire offers their little all:
William is bound; they follow to the shore,
Implore, and weep, and pray; knee-deep they stand,
And view in mute despair the boat recede.

To My Son.

Twice has the sun commenced his annual round,
Since first thy footsteps tottered o'er the ground;
Since first thy tongue was tuned to bless mine ear,
By faltering out the name to fathers dear.
Oh! nature's language, with her looks combined,
More precious far than periods thrice refined!
Oh! sportive looks of love, devoid of guile,
I prize you more than beauty's magic smile;
Yes, in that face, unconscious of its charm,
I gaze with bliss unmingled with alarm.
Ah, no! full oft a boding horror flies
Athwart my fancy, uttering fateful cries.
Almighty Power! his harmless life defend,
And, if we part, 'gainst me the mandate send.
And yet a wish will rise-would I might live,
Till added years his memory firmness give!
For, oh! it would a joy in death impart
To think I still survived within his heart;
To think he'll cast, midway the vale of years,
A retrospective look bedimmed with tears,
And tell, regretful, how I looked and spoke;
What walks I loved, where grew my favourite oak;
How gently I would lead him by the hand;
How gently use the accent of command;

What lore I taught him, roaming wood and wild,
And how the man descended to the child;

How well I loved with him, on Sabbath morn,

To hear the anthem of the vocal thorn,
To teach religion, unallied to strife,
And trace to him the way, the truth, the life.
But far and farther still my view I bend,
And now I see a child thy steps attend;
To yonder churchyard-wall thou tak'st thy way,
While round thee, pleased, thou see'st the infant play;
Then lifting him, while tears suffuse thine eyes,
Pointing, thou tell'st him, There thy grandsire lies.

The Thanksgiving off Cape Trafalgar. Upon the high, yet gently rolling wave, The floating tomb that heaves above the brave, Soft sighs the gale that late tremendous roared, Whelming the wretched remnants of the sword. And now the cannon's peaceful thunder calls The victor bands to mount their wooden walls, And from the ramparts, where their comrades fell, The mingled strain of joy and grief to swell: Fast they ascend, from stem to stern they spread, And crowd the engines whence the lightnings sped: The white-robed priest his upraised hands extends; Hushed is each voice, attention leaning bends; Then from each prow the grand hosannas rise, Float o'er the deep, and hover to the skies. Heaven fills each heart; yet home will oft intrude, And tears of love celestial joys exclude. The wounded man, who hears the soaring strain, Lifts his pale visage, and forgets his pain; While parting spirits, mingling with the lay,/ On hallelujahs wing their heavenward way.

Geo: Crasse.

witnessing the celebrity of his son, and to transcribe, with parental fondness, in his own handwriting, his poem of The Library. Crabbe has described the unpromising scene of his nativity with his usual force and correctness :

Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown

o'er, Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor; From thence a length of burning sand appears, Where the thin harvest waves its withered ears; Rank weeds, that every art and care defy, Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted rye: There thistles stretch their prickly armis afar, And to the ragged infant threaten war; There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil; There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil; Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf, The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf; O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade, And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade; With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound, And a sad splendour vainly shines around. So looks the nymph whom wretched arts adorn, Betrayed by man, then left for man to scorn; Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic rose, While her sad eyes the troubled breast disclose; Whose outward splendour is but folly's dress, Exposing most, when most it gilds distress.

The poet was put apprentice in his fourteenth year to a surgeon, and afterwards practised in Aldborough;

Birthplace of Crabbe.

to only three pounds. Having completed some poetical pieces, he offered them for publication, but they were rejected. In the course of the year, however, he issued a poetical epistle, The Candidate, addressed to the authors of the Monthly Review. It was coldly received, and his publisher failing at the same time, the young poet was plunged into great perplexity and want. He wrote to the premier, Lord North, to the lord-chancellor Thurlow, and to other noblemen, requesting assistance; but in no case was an answer returned. At length, when his affairs were desperate, he applied to Edmund Burke, and in a modest yet manly statement, disclosed to him the situation in which he stood. Burke received him into his own house, and exercised towards him the most generous hospitality. While under his happy roof, the poet met Mr Fox, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and others of the statesman's distinguished friends. In the same year (1781) he published his poem, The Library,' which was favourably noticed by the critics. Lord Thurlow (who now, as in the case of Cowper, came with tardy notice and ungraceful generosity) invited him to breakfast, and at parting, presented him with a bank-note for a hundred pounds. Crabbe entered into sacred orders, and was licensed as curate to the rector of his native parish of Aldborough. In a short time, Burke procured for him the situation of chaplain to the Duke of Rutland at Belvoir castle. This was a great advancement for the poor poet, and he never afterwards was in fear of want. He seems, however, to have felt all the ills of dependence on the great, and in his poem of The Patron, and other parts of his writings, has strongly depicted the evils of such a situation. In 1783 appeared his poem, The Village, which had been seen and corrected by Johnson and Burke. Its success was instant and complete. Some of the descriptions in the poem (as that of the parish workhouse) were copied into all the periodicals, and took that place in our national literature which they still retain. Thurlow presented him with two small