No longer can she now her shrieks command,
And hardly she forbears, through awful fear,
To rushen forth, and with presumptuous
hand

To stay harsh justice in his mid-career.
On thee she calls, on thee, her parent dear!
(Ah! too remote to ward the shameful blow!)
She sees no kind domestic visage near;
And soon a flood of tears begins to flow,
And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe.

sways;

Forewarned if little bird their pranks behold, 'T will whisper in her ear and all the scene unfold.

Lo! now with state she utters the command;
Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair;
Their books of stature small they take in
hand,

Which with pellucid horn secured are,
To save from fingers wet the letters fair;
The work so gay, that on their back is seen,
St. George's high achievements doth declare;
On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been,
Kens the forthcoming rod-unpleasing sight,
I ween!

Ah luckless he, and born beneath the beam
Of evil star! it irks me while I write;
As erst the bard by Mulla's silver stream,
Oft as he told of deadly, dolorous plight,
Sighed as he sung, and did in tears indite.
For, brandishing the rod, she doth begin
To loose the brogues, the stripling's late de-
light!

And down they drop; appears his dainty skin,

Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin.

trace?

Or what device his loud laments explain?
The form uncouth of his disguised face?
The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain?
The plenteous shower that does his cheel
distain?

When he in abject wise implores the dame,
Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain ;
Or when from high she levels well her aim,
And through the thatch his cries each falling
stroke proclaim.

The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay,
Attend, and con their tasks with mickle care;
By turns, astonied, every twig survey,
And from their fellow's hateful wounds be-
ware,

Knowing, I wis, how each the same may share,

Till fear has taught them a performance meet, And to the well-known chest the dame repair,

Whence oft with sugared cates she doth them: greet,

And ginger-bread y-rare; now, certes, doubly

sweet.

His little sister doth his peril see;

All playful as she sate, she grows demure; She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee:

All but the wight of bum y-galled; he Abhorreth bench, and stool, and fourm, and

chair,

See in each sprite some various bent appear!
These rudely carol most incondite lay;
Those sauntering on the green, with jocund
leer

Salute the stranger passing on his way;
Some builden fragile tenements of clay;
Some to the standing lake their courses bend,
With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to
play;

Thilk to the hunter's savory cottage tend,
In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite
to spend.

Here, as each season yields a different store, Each season's stores in order ranged been; Apples with cabbage-net y-covered o'er, Galling full sore th' unmoneyed wight, are

seen;

And goose-b'rie clad in livery red or green;
And here of lovely dye, the catharine pear,
Fine pear! as lovely for thy juice, I ween:
O may no wight e'er pennyless come there,
Lest smit with ardent love he pine with
hopeless care!

See! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound,
With thread so white in tempting posies ty'd,
Scattering like blooming maid their glances
round,

With pampered look draw little eyes aside; And must be bought, though penury betide. The plumb all azure and the nut all brown, And here each season do those cakes abide. Whose honored names th' inventive city

own,

ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.

YE distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful Science still adores

Her Henry's holy shade;

And ye that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights the expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers
among

Wanders the hoary Thames along
His silver winding way:

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!
Ah, fields beloved in vain!-
Where once my careless childhood strayed,
A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales that from ye blow
A momentary bliss bestow,

As, waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,

The paths of pleasure trace;
Who foremost now delight to cleave,
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which enthrall ?
What idle progeny succeed

praises known.

Or urge the flying ball?

While some, on urgent business bent,
Their murmuring labors ply
'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint
To sweeten liberty;

Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry;
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, Less pleasing when possest;

The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast: Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer, of vigor born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly the approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!

No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day;

Yet see, how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate,

And black misfortune's baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murderous band! Ah, tell them, they are men!

These shall the fury passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful anger, pallid fear,
And shame that skulks behind;

Or pining love shall waste their youth, Or jealousy, with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart;
And envy wan, and faded care,
Grim-visaged, comfortless despair,
And sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,

Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter scorn a sacrifice,

And grinning infamy;

The stings of falsehood those shall try,
And hard unkindness' altered eye,

That mocks the tears it forced to flow; And keen remorse, with blood defiled, And moody madness, laughing wild Amid severest woe.

Lo! in the vale of years beneath
A grisly troop are seen,

The painful family of death,

More hideous than their queen; This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That every laboring sinew strains,

Those in the deeper vitals rage: Lo! poverty, to fill the band,

That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow-consuming age.

To each his sufferings: all are men,

Condemned alike to groan; The tender for another's pain,

The unfeeling for his own.

149

Yet, ah! why should they know their fate! Since sorrow never comes too late,

And happiness too swiftly flies, Thought would destroy their paradise. No more where ignorance is bliss,

'Tis folly to be wise!

THOMAS GRAY.

THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD.

Now ponder well, you parents dear,

The words which I shall write;
A doleful story you shall hear,

In time brought forth to light:
A gentleman, of good account,
In Norfolk lived of late,

Whose wealth and riches did surmount
Most men of his estate.

Sore sick he was, and like to die,

No help then he could have; His wife by him as sick did lie,

And both possessed one grave. No love between these two was lost,

Each was to other kind;

In love they lived, in love they died, And left two babes behind:

The one a fine and pretty boy,

Not passing three years old;
The other a girl, more young than he,
And made in beauty's mould.
The father left his little son,

As plainly doth appear,
When he to perfect age should come,
Three hundred pounds a year-

And to his little daughter Jane

Five hundred pounds in gold, To be paid down on marriage-day, Which might not be controlled; But if the children chanced to die Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possess their wealth, For so the will did run.

"Now, brother," said the dying man,

"Look to my children dear;

Be good unto my boy and girl,
No friends else I have here;
To God and you I do commend

My children, night and day;
But little while, be sure, we have,

Within this world to stay.

"You must be father and mother both,

And uncle, all in one;

God knows what will become of them
When I am dead and gone."
With that bespake their mother dear,
"O brother kind," quoth she,
"You are the man must bring our babes
To wealth or misery.

"And if you keep them carefully,
Then God will you reward;

If otherwise you seem to deal,
God will your deeds regard."
With lips as cold as any stone,

She kissed her children small: "God bless you both, my children dear," With that the tears did fall.

These speeches then their brother spake
To this sick couple there:
"The keeping of your children dear,
Sweet sister, do not fear;
God never prosper me nor mine,
Nor aught else that I have,
If I do wrong your children dear,
When you are laid in grave."

Their parents being dead and gone,
The children home he takes,
And brings them home unto his house,
And much of them he makes.
He had not kept these pretty babes
A twelvemonth and a day,
But, for their wealth, he did devise
To make them both away.

He bargained with two ruffians strong,
Which were of furious mood,

That they should take these children young,

And slay them in a wood.

He told his wife, and all he had,
He did the children send

To be brought up in fair London,
With one that was his friend.

Away then went these pretty babes,
Rejoicing at that tide,
Rejoicing with a merry mind,

They should on cock-horse ride;
They prate and prattle pleasantly,
As they rode on the way,

To those that should their butchers be,
And work their lives' decay,

So that the pretty speech they had,
Made Murder's heart relent;
And they that undertook the deed
Full sore they did repent.

Yet one of them, more hard of heart,
Did vow to do his charge,
Because the wretch that hired him
Had paid him very large.

The other would not agree thereto,
So here they fell at strife;
With one another they did fight,
About the children's life;
And he that was of mildest mood,
Did slay the other there,
Within an unfrequented wood;

While babes did quake for fear.

He took the children by the hand

When tears stood in their eye,
And bade them come and go with him,
And look they did not cry;

And two long miles he led them on,
While they for food complain:

"Stay here," quoth he, "I'll bring you bread When I do come again."

These pretty babes, with hand in hand,

Went wandering up and down,
But never more they saw the man,
Approaching from the town.
Their pretty lips, with black-berries,
Were all besmeared and dyed,
And, when they saw the darksome night,
They sate them down and cried.

Thus wandered these two pretty babca
Till death did end their grief;
In one another's arins they died,

As babes wanting relief.
No burial these pretty babes
Of any man receives,
Till robin redbreast, painfully,
Did cover them with leaves.