The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks
Beam in the parting ray; before him lies,
Upon the smooth-cropt sward, the open book,
His comfort, stay, and ever-new delight;
While heedless at a side, the lisping boy
Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch.

[An Autumn Sabbath Walk.]

When homeward bands their several ways disperse,
I love to linger in the narrow field

Of rest, to wander round from tomb to tomb,
And think of some who silent sleep below.
Sad sighs the wind that from these ancient elms
Shakes showers of leaves upon the withered grass :
The sere and yellow wreaths, with eddying sweep,
Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillocked
graves.
But list that moan! 'tis the poor blind man's dog,
His guide for many a day, now come to mourn
The master and the friend-conjunction rare!
A man, indeed, he was of gentle soul,

Though bred to brave the deep: the lightning's flash
Had dimmed, not closed, his mild but sightless eyes.
He was a welcome guest through all his range
(It was not wide); no dog would bay at him:
Children would run to meet him on his way,
And lead him to a sunny seat, and climb
His knee, and wonder at his oft-told tales.
Then would he teach the elfins how to plait
The rushy cap and crown, or sedgy ship:
And I have seen him lay his tremulous hand
Upon their heads, while silent moved his lips.
Peace to thy spirit, that now looks on me
Perhaps with greater pity than I felt
To see thee wandering darkling on thy way,
But let me quit this melancholy spot,
And roam where nature gives a parting smile.
As yet the blue bells linger on the sod

That copse the sheepfold ring; and in the woods
A second blow of many flowers appears,
Flowers faintly tinged, and breathing no perfume.
But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland wreath
That circles Autumn's brow. The ruddy haws
Now clothe the half-leafed thorn; the bramble bends
Beneath its jetty load; the hazel hangs
With auburn bunches, dipping in the stream
That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow
The leaf-strewn banks: oft, statue-like, I gaze,
In vacancy of thought, upon that stream,
And chase, with dreaming eye, the eddying foam,
Or rowan's clustered branch, or harvest sheaf,
Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood.

[A Winter Sabbath Walk.]

How dazzling white the snowy scene! deep, deep
The stillness of the winter Sabbath day-
Not even a foot-fall heard. Smooth are the fields,
Each hollow pathway level with the plain :
Hid are the bushes, save that here and there
Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom.
High-ridged the whirled drift has almost reached
The powdered key-stone of the church-yard porch.
Mute hangs the hooded bell; the tombs lie buried;
No step approaches to the house of prayer.

The flickering fall is o'er: the clouds disperse,
And show the sun, hung o'er the welkin's verge,
Shooting a bright but ineffectual beam

On all the sparkling waste. Now is the time
To visit nature in her grand attire.
Though perilous the mountainous ascent,
A noble recompense the danger brings.
How beautiful the plain stretched far below,
Unvaried though it be, save by yon stream
With azure windings, or the leafless wood!
But what the beauty of the plain, compared

To that sublimity which reigns enthroned,
Holding joint rule with solitude divine,
Among yon rocky fells that bid defiance
To steps the most adventurously bold?
There silence dwells profound; or if the cry
Of high-poised eagle break at times the hush,
The mantled echoes no response return.

But let me now explore the deep-sunk dell.
No foot-print, save the covey's or the flock's,
Is seen along the rill, where marshy springs
Still rear the grassy blade of vivid green.
Beware, ye shepherds, of these treacherous haunts,
Nor linger there too long: the wintry day
Soon closes; and full oft a heavier fall,
Heaped by the blast, fills up the sheltered glen,
While, gurgling deep below, the buried rill
Mines for itself a snow-coved way! Oh, then,
Your helpless charge drive from the tempting spot,
And keep them on the bleak hill's stormy side,
Where night-winds sweep the gathering drift away:
So the great Shepherd leads the heavenly flock
From faithless pleasures, full into the storms
Of life, where long they bear the bitter blast,
Until at length the vernal sun looks forth,
Bedimmed with showers; then to the pastures green
He brings them where the quiet waters glide,
The stream of life, the Siloah of the soul.

A Scottish Country Wedding.

[From British Georgics."]

Now, 'mid the general glow of opening blooms,
Coy maidens blush consent, nor slight the gift
From neighbouring fair brought home, till now re-
fused.

Swains, seize the sunny hours to make your hay,
For woman's smiles are fickle as the sky:
Bespeak the priest, bespeak the minstrel too,
Ere May, to wedlock hostile, stop the banns.
The appointed day arrives, a blithesome day
Of festive jollity; yet not devoid
Of soft regret to her about to leave
A parent's roof; yes, at the word, join hands,
A tear reluctant starts, as she beholds
Her mother's looks, her father's silvery hairs.
But serious thoughts take flight, when from the barn,
Soon as the bands are knit, a jocund sound
Strikes briskly up, and nimble feet beat fast
Upon the earthen floor. Through many a reel
With various steps uncouth, some new, some old,
Some all the dancer's own, with Highland flings
Not void of grace, the lads and lasses strive
To dance each other down; and oft when quite
Forespent, the fingers merrily cracked, the bound,
The rallying shout well-timed, and sudden change
To sprightlier tune, revive the flagging foot,
And make it feel as if it tripped in air.

When all are tired, and all his stock of reels
The minstrel o'er and o'er again has run,
The cheering flagon circles round; meanwhile,
A softened tune, and slower measure, flows
Sweet from the strings, and stills the boisterous joy.
Maybe The Bonny Broom of Cowdenknowes
(If simply played, though not with master hand),
Or Patie's Mill, or Bush Aboon Traquair,
Inspire a tranquil gladness through the breast;
Or that most mournful strain, the sad lament
For Flodden-field, drives mirth from every face,
And makes the firmest heart strive hard to curb
The rising tear; till, with unpausing bow,
The blithe strathspey springs up, reminding some
Of nights when Gow's old arm (nor old the tale),
Unceasing, save when reeking cans went round,
Made heart and heel leap light as bounding roe.
Alas! no more shall we behold that look
So venerable, yet so blent with mirth,

And festive joy sedate; that ancient garb
Unvaried-tartan hose and bonnet blue!
No more shall beauty's partial eye draw forth
The full intoxication of his strain,
Mellifluous, strong, exuberantly rich!
No more amid the pauses of the dance
Shall he repeat those measures, that in days
Of other years could soothe a falling prince,
And light his visage with a transient smile
Of melancholy joy-like autumn sun
Gilding a sere tree with a passing beam!
Or play to sportive children on the green
Dancing at gloaming hour; or willing cheer,
With strains unbought, the shepherd's bridal day!
But light now failing, glimmering candles shine
In ready chandeliers of moulded clay
Stuck round the walls, displaying to the view
The ceiling rich with cobweb-drapery hung.
Meanwhile, from mill and smiddy, field and barn,
Fresh groups come hastening in; but of them all,
The miller bears the gree, as rafter high

He leaps, and, lighting, shakes a dusty cloud all round.
In harmless merriment, protracted long,
The hours glide by. At last, the stocking thrown,
And duly every gossip rite performed,

Youths, maids, and matrons, take their several ways;
While drouthy carles, waiting for the moon,
Sit down again, and quaff till daylight dawn.

The Impressed Sailor Boy.

[From the 'Birds of Scotland."]
Low in a glen,
Down which a little stream had furrowed deep,
'Tween meeting birchen boughs, a shelvy channel,
And brawling mingled with the western tide;
Far up that stream, almost beyond the roar
Of storm-bulged breakers, foaming o'er the rocks
With furious dash, a lowly dwelling lurked,
Surrounded by a circlet of the stream.
Before the wattled door, a greensward plat,
With daisies gay, pastured a playful lamb;
A pebbly path, deep worn, led up the hill,
Winding among the trees, by wheel untouched,
Save when the winter fuel was brought home-
One of the poor man's yearly festivals.
On every side it was a sheltered spot,
So high and suddenly the woody steeps
Arose. One only way, downward the stream,
Just o'er the hollow, 'tween the meeting boughs,
The distant wave was seen, with now and then
The glimpse of passing sail; but when the breeze
Crested the distant wave, this little nook
Was all so calm, that, on the limberest spray,
The sweet bird chanted motionless, the leaves
At times scarce fluttering. Here dwelt a pair,
Poor, humble, and content; one son alone,
Their William, happy lived at home to bless
Their downward years; he, simple youth,
With boyish fondness, fancied he could love
A seaman's life, and with the fishers sailed,
To try their ways far 'mong the western isles,
Far as St Kilda's rock-walled shore abrupt,
O'er which he saw ten thousand pinions wheel
Confused, dimming the sky: these dreary shores
Gladly he left-he had a homeward heart:
No more his wishes wander to the waves.
But still he loves to cast a backward look,
And tell of all he saw, of all he learned;
Of pillared Staffa, lone Iona's isle,

Where Scotland's kings are laid; of Lewis, Skye,
And of the mainland mountain-circled lochs;
And he would sing the rowers timing chant
And chorus wild. Once on a summer's eve,
When low the sun behind the Highland hills
Was almost set, he sung that song to cheer

The aged folks; upon the inverted quern
The father sat; the mother's spindle hung
Forgot, and backward twirled the half-spun thread;
Listening with partial, well-pleased look, she gazed
Upon her son, and inly blessed the Lord,
That he was safe returned. Sudden a noise
Bursts rushing through the trees; a glance of steel
Dazzles the eye, and fierce the savage band
Glare all around, then single out their prey.
In vain the mother clasps her darling boy;
In vain the sire offers their little all:
William is bound; they follow to the shore,
Implore, and weep, and pray; knee-deep they stand,
And view in mute despair the boat recede.

To My Son.

Twice has the sun commenced his annual round,
Since first thy footsteps tottered o'er the ground;
Since first thy tongue was tuned to bless mine ear,
By faltering out the name to fathers dear.
Oh! nature's language, with her looks combined,
More precious far than periods thrice refined!
Oh! sportive looks of love, devoid of guile,
I prize you more than beauty's magic smile;
Yes, in that face, unconscious of its charm,
I gaze with bliss unmingled with alarm.
Ah, no! full oft a boding horror flies
Athwart my fancy, uttering fateful cries.
Almighty Power! his harmless life defend,
And, if we part, 'gainst me the mandate send.
And yet a wish will rise-would I might live,
Till added years his memory firmness give!
For, oh! it would a joy in death impart
To think I still survived within his heart;
To think he'll cast, midway the vale of years,
A retrospective look bedimmed with tears,
And tell, regretful, how I looked and spoke;
What walks I loved, where grew my favourite oak;
How gently I would lead him by the hand;
How gently use the accent of command;
What lore I taught him, roaming wood and wild,
And how the man descended to the child;
How well I loved with him, on Sabbath morn,

To hear the anthem of the vocal thorn,
To teach religion, unallied to strife,
And trace to him the way, the truth, the life.
But far and farther still my view I bend,
And now I see a child thy steps attend;
To yonder churchyard-wall thou tak'st thy way,
While round thee, pleased, thou see'st the infant play;
Then lifting him, while tears suffuse thine eyes,
Pointing, thou tell'st him, There thy grandsire lies.

The Thanksgiving off Cape Trafalgar. Upon the high, yet gently rolling wave, The floating tomb that heaves above the brave, Soft sighs the gale that late tremendous roared, Whelming the wretched remnants of the sword. And now the cannon's peaceful thunder calls The victor bands to mount their wooden walls, And from the ramparts, where their comrades fell, The mingled strain of joy and grief to swell: Fast they ascend, from stem to stern they spread, And crowd the engines whence the lightnings sped: The white-robed priest his upraised hands extends; Hushed is each voice, attention leaning bends; Then from each prow the grand hosannas rise, Float o'er the deep, and hover to the skies. Heaven fills each heart; yet home will oft intrude, And tears of love celestial joys exclude. The wounded man, who hears the soaring strain, Lifts his pale visage, and forgets his pain; While parting spirits, mingling with the lay, On hallelujahs wing their heavenward way.

GEORGE CRABBE.

The REV. GEORGE CRABBE, whom Byron has characterised as 'Nature's sternest painter, yet the best,' was of humble origin, and born at Aldborough, in Suffolk, on the Christmas eve of 1754. His father was collector of the salt duties, or salt-master, as he was termed, and though of poor circumstances and violent temper, he exerted himself to give George a superior education. It is pleasing to know that the old man lived to reap his reward, in

but his prospects were so gloomy, that he abandoned his profession, and proceeded to London as a literary adventurer. His whole stock of money amounted

Geo: Crasse.

witnessing the celebrity of his son, and to transcribe, with parental fondness, in his own handwriting, his poem of The Library. Crabbe has described the unpromising scene of his nativity with his usual

force and correctness :

Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er,

Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor;
From thence a length of burning sand appears,
Where the thin harvest waves its withered ears;
Rank weeds, that every art and care defy,
Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted rye:
There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar,
And to the ragged infant threaten war;
There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil;
There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil;
Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf,
The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf;
O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade,
And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade;
With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound,
And a sad splendour vainly shines around.
So looks the nymph whom wretched arts adorn,
Betrayed by man, then left for man to scorn;
Whose check in vain assumes the mimic rose,
While her sad eyes the troubled breast disclose;
Whose outward splendour is but folly's dress,
Exposing most, when most it gilds distress.

The poet was put apprentice in his fourteenth year to a surgeon, and afterwards practised in Aldborough;

to only three pounds. Having completed some poetical pieces, he offered them for publication, but they were rejected. In the course of the year, however, he issued a poetical epistle, The Candidate. addressed to the authors of the Monthly Review. It was coldly received, and his publisher failing at the same time, the young poet was plunged into great perplexity and want. He wrote to the premier, Lord North, to the lord-chancellor Thurlow, and to other noblemen, requesting assistance; but in no case was an answer returned. At length, when his affairs were desperate, he applied to Edmund Burke, and in a modest yet manly statement, disclosed to him the situation in which he stood. Burke received him into his own house, and exercised towards him the most generous hospitality. While under is happy roof, the poet met Mr Fox, Sir Joshua friends. In the same year (1781) he published his Reynolds, and others of the statesman's distinguished poem, 'The Library,' which was favourably noticed by the critics. Lord Thurlow (who now, as in the case of Cowper, came with tardy notice and ungraceful generosity) invited him to breakfast, and at parting, presented him with a bank-note for a hundred pounds. Crabbe entered into sacred orders, and was licensed as curate to the rector of his native parish of Aldborough. In a short time, Burke procured for him the situation of chaplain to the Duke of Rutland at Belvoir castle. This was a great advancement for the poor poet, and he never afterwards was in fear of want. He seems, however, to have felt all the ills of dependence on the great, and in his poem of The Patron, and other parts of his writings, has strongly depicted the evils of such a situation. In 1783 appeared his poem, The Village, which had been seen and corrected by Johnson and Burke. Its success was instant and complete. Some of the descriptions in the poem (as that of the parish workhouse) were copied into all the periodicals, and took that place in our national literature which they still retain. Thurlow presented him with two small