SWEET AUBURN.

SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain;
Where smiling Spring its earliest visits paid,

And parting Summer's lingering blooms delayed;

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please!
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,

Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm-

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church, that topp'd the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn-bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blessed the coming day,

When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
While many a pastime, circled in the shade,
The young contended as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair, that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love;

The matron's glance, that would those looks reprove.

These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,
These were thy charms-but all these charms are fled.

THE SHOEMAKER.

THE Shoemaker sat among wax and leather,
With the lapstone on his knee,

Where, snug in his shop, he defied all weather,
Drawing his quarters and sole together:

A happy old man was he.

THE SHOEMAKER.

The happy old man was so wise and knowing,
The worth of his time he knew;

He bristled his ends and he kept them going,
And felt to each moment a stitch was owing,
Until he got round the shoe.

Of every deed that his wax was sealing,
The closing was firm and fast;

The prick of his awl never caused a feeling
Of pain to the toe; and his skill in heeling
Was perfect, and true to the last.

Whenever you gave him a boot to measure,
With gentle and skilful hand

He took its proportions, with looks of pleasure,
As if you were giving the costliest treasure,
Or dubbing him lord of the land.

And many a one did he save from getting
A fever, or cold, or cough;

For many a foot did he save from wetting,
When, whether in water or snow 'twas setting,
His shoeing would keep them off.

When he had done with his making and mending,
With hope and peaceful breast,

Resigning his awl, as his thread was ending,

He passed from his bench, to the grave descending, As high as the king, to rest.

HANNAH F. GOULD.

G

81

LINES

COMPOSED ON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1803.

EARTH has not anything to show more fair;
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty.
This city now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open into the fields, and to the sky:

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

WORDSWORTH.