O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stainèd mouth;

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

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,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

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,
Clustered around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

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,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!

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!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that oft-times hath

Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faëry lands forlorn.

Forlorn the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the Fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades.
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:

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,
One happy Christmas, laid upon the shelf
His cap, his gown, and store of learned pelf,
With a the deathless bards of Greece and Rome,
To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home.

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."
"A jack-pie must be a john-pie-thus, 'tis done,
For every john-pie must be a pi-ge-on!"
"Bravo," Sir Peter cries, "Logic for ever!
It beats my grandmother-and she was clever!
But zounds, my boy-it surely would be hard
That wit and learning should have no reward !
To-morrow, for a stroll, the park we'll cross,

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,
And dragged his Uncle, fasting, through the park:—
Each craggy hill and dale in vain they cross,
To find out something like a chestnut horse :
But no such animal the meadows cropp'd:
At length, beneath a tree, Sir Peter stopp'd;
Took a bough-then shook it and down fell

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-
Not by the musty, fusty, worn-out rules
Of Locke and Bacon-addle-headed fools!
All Logic but the wrangler's I disown,
And stick to one sound argument--your own,
Since you have prov'd to me, I don't deny,
That a pie-john's the same as a john-pie;
What follows then, but as a thing of course,
That a horse-chestnut is a chestnut-horse?"

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
-SHEEP FOND OF CHANGING-LAMBS AT PLAY THE BUTCHER,
ETC.

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,
Retrace the paths of wild obscurity.

No deeds of arms my humble lines rehearse;
No Alpine wonders thunder through my verse,
The roaring cataract, the snow-topt hill,
Inspiring awe, till breath itself stands still:
Nature's sublimer scenes ne'er charm'd mine eyes,
Nor Science led me through the boundless skies;
From meaner objects far my rapture's flow;
O point these raptures! bid my bosom glow!
And lead my soul to ecstasies of praise
For all the blessings of my infant days!

Bear me through regions where gay Fancy dwells;
But mould to Truth's fair form what Memory tells.

Live, trifling incidents, and grace my song,
That to the humblest menial belong:

To him whose drudgery unheeded goes,
His joys unreckon'd as his cares or woes;
Though joys and cares in every path are sown,
And youthful minds have feelings of their own,
Quick-springing sorrows, transient as the dew,
Delights from trifles, trifles ever new.

"Twas thus with Giles: meek, fatherless, and poor:
Labour his portion, but he felt no more;