Or go crawling from window to window, to see
A pig on a dunghill, or crow on a tree.
In London, if folks ill together are put,
A bore may be dropp'd, and a quiz may be cut:
We change without end; and if lazy or ill,
All wants are at hand, and all wishes at will.
In the country you're nail'd like a pail in the park,
To some stick of a neighbour that's cramm'd in the ark;
And 'tis odd, if you're hurt, or in fits tumble down,
You reach death ere the doctor can reach you from town.
In London how easy we visit and meet,
Gay pleasure's the theme, and sweet smiles are our treat;
Our morning's a round of good humour'd delight,
And we rattle, in comfort, to pleasure at night.
In the country, how sprightly! our visits we make,
Through ten miles of mud, for formality's sake;
With the coachman in drink, and the moon in a fog,
And no thought in your head but a ditch or a bog.
In London the spirits are cheerful and light,
All places are gay and all faces are bright;
We've ever new joys, and revived by each whim,
Each day on a fresh tide of pleasure we swim.
But how gay in the country! what summer delight
To be waiting for winter from morning to night!
Then the fret of impatience gives exquisite glee
To relish the sweet rural objects we see.
In town we've no use for the skies overhead,
For when the sun rises then we go to bed ;
And as to that old-fashion'd virgin the moon,
She shines out of season, like saturn in June.
In the country these planets delightfully glare
Just to show us the object we want is n't there:
Oh, how cheering and gay, when their beauties arise,
To sit and gaze round with the tears in one's eyes!
But 'tis in the country alone we can find
That happy resource, that relief to the mind,
When, drove to despair, our last effort we make,
And drag the old fish-pond, for novelty's sake!
Indeed I must own, 'tis a pleasure complete
To see ladies well draggled and wet in their feet;
But what is all that to the transport we feel
When we capture, in triumph, two toads and an eel?
I have heard though, that love in a cottage is sweet,
When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet :
That's to come- -for as yet I, alas! am a swain
Who require, I own it, more links to my chain.
Your magpies and stock-doves may flirt among trees, And chatter their transports in groves, if they please; But a house is much more to my taste than a tree, And for groves, oh! a good grove of chimneys for me.
In the country, if Cupid should find a man out,
The poor tortured victim mopes hopeless about;
But in London, thank heaven! our peace is secure,
Where for one eye to kill, there's a thousand to cure.
I know Love's a devil, too subtle to spy,
That shoots through the soul, from the beam of an eye; But in London these devils so quick fly about,
That a new devil still drives an old devil out.
In town let me live then, in town let me die ;
For in truth I can't relish the country, not I.
If one must have a villa in summer to dwell,
Oh, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall!
JOHN CAMERON. FROM THE TRIAL OF THE MANCHESTER
BARDS AND THE BOWDON CORONATION," 1853.
To feel within the stirrings of the
To bless the world; to wish our thoughts had wings To sweep the world; to wish that we were kings
In royal-wise, to give a royal dower;
A God, to charge with blessings the swift hour;
To climb in dreams the glorious heights of hope;
To have the will to do, without the scope-
'Tis this that makes the sunniest day to lower;
'Tis this that makes the Sisyphus of song
Rolling his stone for ever up the hill
No fable, but an ever-living truth:
No tale to him the man of purpose strong,
No tale to credulous and aspiring youth
That strives to set the right above the wrong.
FROM THE "LITERARY GAZETTE."
A CHILD is playing on the green,
With rosy cheek and radiant mien ;
But sorrow comes-the smile's departed,
He weeps as he were broken-hearted:
But see, ere yet his tears are dry,
Again his laugh trills wild and high ;
As lights and shades each other chace,
So pain and joy flit o'er his face;
And nought shall have the power to keep
His eyes one moment from their sleep :
And such was I.
A youth sits with his burning glance
Turn'd upward to heaven's blue expanse :
What is it o'er his pale cheek flushing?
What thought has set the life-blood gushing?
It is of many a deed sublime
That he will do in future time—
Of many a struggle to be past,
Repaid by deathless fame at last;
He thinks not on the moments gone-
He lives in fiery hope alone :
Sunken those eyes, and worn that brow,
Yet more of care than years they show :
There's something in that cheek revealing
The bosom-wound that knows no healing;
He lives, and will live on, and smile,
And thoughts he cannot lose beguile;
He'll shun no duty, break no tie-
But his star's fallen from the sky.
Oh! pitying heaven, the wretch forgive
That bears, but wishes not to live:
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