She knew not that Love plants with roses the wind,

And builds on the seas as they roll;

That the waifs of the world can be gentle and kind,*

And the homeless find home in the soul;
But kept the true faith, in her maxims, derived
From progenitors growing in grace,

And bred in-and-in, with the hornets they hived,
Till perfection was stamp'd on their race.

XVI.

"Did I stop thy clock, from past five until seven?" Said the gipsy with ill-suppress'd laugh; "By Ecclesfield chimes it is long past eleven : Thou'rt too late, by an hour and a half.”

* When Retribution, in the shape of the great Mahomedan invasion, overtook the oppressors of India, to the casteless Sudra or Pariah privation and pain were familiar; and he fled to far countries, and the enjoyment of homeless liberty, carrying with him his gods, the affections, that never die but his victimizers, the aristocrats to whom privation and houseless pain were not familiar remained; to be trampled on by their conquerors. Those critics who know that the waifs of the world can be gentle and kind," will understand the moral which in this poem I have wished to deduce; and if in attempting to join the humorous and the beautiful I have again fail'd, they will allow that there is nothing in the subject itself which renders the attempt impracticable; for in nature (as in Shakspeare,) the humorous and the beautiful, like sorrow and joy, are found side by side

"

XVII.

"The Snake!" Susan cried, "there she hisses in

scorn;

The Pickpurse! she stole my crown-piece;

The Rascal! I'll watch her; she means, I'll be sworn, To steal Tommy Somerset's geese.

For who can be safe, when plain folks are ashamed To sign for their names with a cross?

Our thieves, like Jem's Nan, for book-learning are famed;

And learn'd is yon rogue, to my loss!

No gipsy is she, but a thief from the town,

Where she borrow'd her books, as she borrow'd her

gown.

But yonder's my John! he is waiting, I see,

To welcome his glove of soft silk:

Ev'n fools know the worth of a good wife, like me!

So, I'll hasten-and skim him his milk."*

XVIII.

Then, she puff'd up the hill, to the home of her love; And there a strange scene was display'd;

For John the bewitch'd, though expecting his dove, Sat at dinner, with Sarah, his maid,

* So that, after all, we may doubt whether the newest substitution in matrimonial tactics, that of arsenic for magic, is an improvement on the old practice.

In the neat pannel'd parlour, where Jem used to

dine,

When he call'd on his way from the shows:

He was sipping Jem's cordial, the dame's brandied wine,

When Sarah in terror arose,

And in came meek Susan! who said not a word,
But threw her soil'd shawl o'er a chair;

Then, courteously smil❜d on her fear-feigning lord,
And honour'd her maid with a stare.

A hot roasted fowl on the table was placed;
So, feeling of hunger the stings,

She took Sarah's chair, and to show her good taste,
Help'd herself to the breast and both wings.
But in token of peace, both the sidebones for John,
From under the straddle she carved;

And gave him both drumsticks, when both thighs were

gone,

To feed the fat hen he had starved;

For Susan transform'd by a spirit of power,

Seem'd meek as a storm-cloud at rest;

And John the Bewitch'd, Unbewitch'd from that hour,

Was of maltsters and mortals the best!

He spoke not, but placidly welcom❜d the change
Which Time, "that brings roses," had brought;

Nor tardy was she to give evidence strange
That in her was a miracle wrought

Lo, when she had dined, to the garden she went,

Where she cull'd the first lilac of Spring,

The prize-polyanthus, with violets blent,

And primroses-tied in a string;

And placed them—and laugh'd-on the cloth of pale blue,

In a vase, sprigg'd with gold on dead white; For all that is lovely and tasteful, she knew, Fill'd his weak childish heart with delight.

Sweet Flowers, how they smiled through the thunder's bright tears,

On the maltster, self-scourged, though belied, Who shook in sly glee, the brown wig of his years,

With the gipsy-changed dame at his side:

"Young wives and old husbands may sometimes agree," Said John, shaking hands with his mate;

"A lobsided ladder's a sort of a stee,"

Thought Susan, instructed, though late;

While the Father of Love, from the brightening west.

Where Loxley and Rivilin rise,

Cast down on their waters, awake or at rest,

And on John's placid smile, and on Susan's fond. breast,

The soul-soothing blue of his eyes;

And the redbreast peep'd in from the moss'd windowsill,

Where he sang in the sunshiny rain,

Till the thunder-rent cloud, o'er the rough eastern hill,

Retiring in wrath, that spake thunder-toned still,
Left Stanage, serene as his Maker's high will,
In sunshine and glory again;

Proclaiming afar, in the silence of light,

His love of the lovely, the might of his might;
Proclaiming afar, that the Beautiful lives

With the good and the wise, in His Temple of Mind,
Still making life's strength of the peace that he gives
To the hearts of the gentle, the thoughtful, the kind.

EPISTLE.

Since Ellen Rendall deigns to say,
"Write me a poem !" I obey.

Weeds in exchange for flowers, I send;
For the best letter ever penn'd,

The best bad rhymes I can compose―
Not strength in beauty, like thy prose;
Oh, not the wealth of feeling fine
Enriching every phrase of thine,
The fresh fruit of a sad heart's truth,

Flush'd over with the bloom of youth!
Rhymed words I write, and fain would write
A poem, with a poet's might."

But I am bow'd with years;
And cares that shed no tears,