Low weighing down each floweret's tender stalk;
To list the grashopper's hoarse creaking chirp;
And then to let excursive fancy fly

To scenes, where roaring cannon drown the straining voice,

And fierce gesticulation takes the place

of useless words. May be some Alpine brook, That served to part two neighbouring shepherds' flocks, Is now the limit of two hostile camps.

Weak limit! to be filled, ere evening star,

With heaps of slain: Far down thy rocky course, The midnight wolf, lapping the gore-stained flood, Gluts his keen thirst, and oft, and oft returns, Unsated, to the purple, tepid stream.

But let me fly such scenes, which, even when feigned,
Distress. To Scotia's peaceful glens I turn,
And rest my eyes upon her waving fields,

Where now the scythe lays low the mingled flowers.
Ah, spare, thou pitying swain! a ridge-breadth round
The partridge nest; so shall no new-come lord-
To ope a vista to some distant spire-

Thy cottage raze; but, when the toilsome day
Is done, still shall the turf-laid seat invite

Thy weary limbs; there peace and health shall bless
Thy frugal fare, served by the unhired hand,

That seeks no wages save a parent's smile.

Thus glides the eve, while round the strawy roof
Is heard the bat's wing in the deep-hushed air,
And from the little field the corncraik's harsh,
Yet not unpleasing note, the stillness breaks,
All the night long, till day-spring wake the lark.

JULY.

SLOW move the sultry hours. O, for the shield
Of darkening boughs, or hollow rock grotesque!

The pool transparent to its pebbly bed,
With here and there a slowly gliding trout,
Invites the throbbing, half reluctant, breast
To plunge: The dash re-echoes from the rocks,
And smooth, in sinuous course, the swimmer winds,
Now, with extended arms, rowing his way;

And now, with sunward face, he floating lies;
Till, blinded by the dazzling beam, he turns,
Then to the bottom dives, emerging soon
With stone, as trophy, in his waving hand:
Blythe days of jocund youth, now almost flown!
Meantime, far up the windings of the stream,
Where birken witchknots o'er the channel meet,
The sportive shriek, shrill, mingled with the laugh,

The bushes hung with beauty's white attiré,
Tempt, yet forbid, the intrusive eye's approach.

Unhappy he, who, in this season, pent
Within the darksome gloom of city lane,
Pines for the flowery paths, and woody shades,
From which the love of lucre, or of power,
Enticed his youthful steps. In vain he turns
The rich descriptive page of THOMSON'S muse,
And strives to fancy that the lovely scenes
Are present: So the hand of childhood tries
To grasp the pictured bunch of fruit, or flowers,
But, disappointed, feels the canvas smooth:
So the caged lark, upon a withering turf,
Flutters from side to side, with quivering wings,
As if in act of mounting to the skies.

At noontide hour, from school, the little throng Rush gaily, sporting o'er the enamelled mead. Some strive to catch the bloom-perched butterfly; And if they miss his mealy wings, the flower, From which he flies, the disappointment sooths. Others, so pale in look, in tattered garb,

Motley, with half-spun threads and cotton flakes,
Trudge, drooping, to the many-storied pile,
Where thousand spindles whirling stun the ear,
Confused: There, prisoned close, they wretched moil.

5

Sweet age, perverted from its proper end!

When childhood toils, the field should be the scene,—
To tend the sheep, or homeward drive the herd
Or, from the corn-ridge, scare the pilfering rooks,
Or to the mowers bear the milky pail.

But, Commerce, Commerce, Manufactures, still
Weary the ear; health, morals, all must yield
To pamper the monopolising few,

To make a wealthy, but a wretched state.
Blest be the generous band, that would restore
To honour due the long-neglected plough!
From it expect peace, plenty, virtue, health:
Compare with it, Britannia, all thine isles
Beyond the Atlantic wave! thy trade! thy ships
Deep-fraught with blood!

But let me quit such themes! and, peaceful, roam The winding glen, where now the wild-rose pale And garish broom, strew, with their fading flowers, The narrow greenwood path. To me more sweet The greenwood path, half hid, 'neath brake and briar, Than pebbled walks so trim; more dear to me The daisied plat, before the cottage door, Than waveless sea of widely spreading lawn, 'Mid which some insulated mansion towers,

Spurning the humble dwellings from its proud domain.