O for a beaker full of the warm South, That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies · Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Forlorn the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music-do I wake or sleep? MODERN LOGIC. [AN anonymous little poem seldom now met with, but a wonderful favourite in home circles fifty years ago.] N Eton stripling, training for the Law, ΑΝ A dunce at Syntax, but a dab at Taw, Arrived, and past the usual "How d'ye do's?" Inquiries of old friends, and College news "Well, Tom, the road, what saw you worth discussing, And how goes study, boy-what is't you're learning?" "Oh, Logic, Sir-but not the worn-out rules Of Locke and Bacon-antiquated fools! 'Tis wit and wrangler's Logic-thus, d'ye see, I'll prove to you, as clear as A, B, C, That an eel-pie's a pigeon :-to deny it, Were to swear black's white." "Indeed!" "Let's try it: An eel-pie is a pie of fish."-" Agreed." “A fish-pie may be a jack-pie." "Well, proceed." And then I'll give you "—"What?"—" My chestnut-horse." "A horse!" cries Tom; "blood, pedigree, and paces! Oh, what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races!" He went to bed and wept for downright sorrow To think the night must pass before the morrow; Dream'd of his boots, his cap, his spurs, and leather breeches, Of leaping five-barr'd gates, and crossing ditches; Left his warm bed an hour before the lark, A fine horse-chestnut in its prickly shell "There, Tom, take that," "Well, Sir, and what beside?" "Why, since you're booted, saddle it and ride!" "Ride what? a chestnut!" "Ay; come, get across. I tell you, Tom, the chestnut is a horse, And all the horse you'll get; for I can show, As clear as sunshine, that 'tis really so- SPRING. From the "FARMER'S Boy.' BY ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.—1766-1823. [ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, the son of a tailor, was born at Honington, near Bury St. Edmund's, Suffolk, in the year 1766. His father died when the poet was a child, and the boy was placed under the care of his uncle, a farmer. He remained with him only two years, and his frame being too delicate for field labour, he was taken by his elder brother to London, where he was brought up to the trade of a shoemaker. Here he wrote his "Farmer's Boy," a poem full of reminiscences of the rural scenes and rustic employments which he witnessed and engaged in while at his uncle's. The manuscript was offered to the booksellers and rejected; but under the patronage of a literary gentleman, Mr. Capel Lofft, it was introduced to the public, and was eminently successful. Though befriended by Mr. Lofft and assisted by the Duke of Grafton, Bloomfield had a great share of those miseries which by some fatality seem to attend the lives of many poets. His latter years were clouded by dejection and poverty. He died at Shefford, in Bedfordshire, on the 19th of August, 1823.] INVOCATION, ETC.-SEED TIME HARROWING MORNING WALKS MILKING THE DAIRY-SUFFOLK CHEESE-SPRING COMING FORTH COME, blest Spirit! whatsoe'er thou art, Thou kindling warmth that hover'st round my heart, Sweet inmate, hail! thou source of sterling joy, That poverty itself cannot destroy, Be thou my Muse; and, faithful still to me, No deeds of arms my humble lines rehearse; Bear me through regions where gay Fancy dwells; Live, trifling incidents, and grace my song, To him whose drudgery unheeded goes, "Twas thus with Giles: meek, fatherless, and poor: |