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A Chimney sweeper's climbing boy

Soon caught my anxious eye,
In shape and hue much like a toy,

Dipt in the blackest dye.

But, nearer drawn, I could descry

What thousands cannot show, A cheerful face, an artless eye,

And teeth as white as snow.


A ragged leathern

cap wore, His face was deeply stained ; His feet and legs no covering bore,

Save soot and filth engrained.

A brush and scraper filled his hands;

But though his feet were bare, To tread the sharp and hottest sands

Appeared his earnest care.

Why dost thou, little boy, I said,

Walk on the hottest ground ? Whilst here, where I am glad to tread,

The cooling sod is found.

“ Because I have no shoes,” he cried,

“ And this is nicely warm ;' 'Twill cut your feet I then replied,

And do still greater harm.

“ No, sir," he cried, “ they're bard as wood,

“ And when there's ice and snow, “ I like to run along the road

“ Until it make them glow.

“ But I've a pair of shoes, they say

“I must for Sundays keep; " 'Cause then my master drinks all day,

“ And I dont go to sweep.”

O wretch, I cried, he's black within,

Is this his vile employ?
But thou hast but a tarnished skin,

How old art thou my boy?

“ I'm five a half, the neighbours say,

6 I know not what they meant ; 6 At Christmas father ran away,

• And mother died at Lent."

'Twas undisguised truth I heard

Drop from an orphan's lips; As spotless as yon downy bird

That plucks the ripening hips.

The story filled my heart with woe,

Which he could cheerly tell ;
I sighed adieu ! poor hapless Joe !
Then looked and sighed farewell!



Written in the Church-yard of Richmond, Yorkshire.

METHINKS it is good to be here,
If thou wilt let us build--but for whom?

Nor Elias nor Moses appear,
But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,
The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition ? Ab! no : Affrighted he shrinketh away ;

For see ! they would pin him below To a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty ? Ah! no; she forgets The charms that she wielded before :

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which, but yesterday, fools could adore For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the palace of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud ? Alas! they are all laid aside,

And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd,
But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches ? Alas! 'tis in vain,
Which bid in their turns have been hid ;

The treasures are squander'd again ;
And here in the grave are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah ! here is a plentiful board,
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love ?
Ah! no; they have wither'd and died,

Or fled with the spirit above-
Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow? the dead cannot grieve, Not a sob, nor a sigh, meets mine ear

Which compassion itself could relieve; Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear; Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here.

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah! no; for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow; Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise ;

The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled ; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeath'd us them both when he rose to the



The passing Bell.

The solemn music loads the gale,
Mournful, deep funereal bell !
Soon as night her ebon throne
Resigns; thou mak'st thy plaintive moan.

Is it a parent's dirge I hear ?
Or o'er a child's lamented bier
Pour'st thou thy sadly solemn knell,

Mournful, deep, funereal bell !

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