THE HAMLET.

WRITTEN IN WHICHWOOD FOR EST.

The hinds how blest, who ne'er beguil'd
To quit their hamlet's hawthorn wild:
Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main,
For splendid care and guilty gain !

When morning's twilight-tinctur'd beam
Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam,
They rove abroad in æther blue,
To dip the sithe in fragrant dew:
The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell,
That nodding shades a craggy dell.

Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear, Wild Nature's sweetest notes they hear : On green untrodden banks they view The hyacinth's neglected hue :

In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds,
They spy the spaniel's airy bounds :
And startle from her ashen spray,
Across the glen, the screaming jay:
Each native charm their steps explore
Of Solitude's sequester'd store.

For them the moon, with cloudless ray, ,
Mounts, to illume their homeward way:
Their weary spirits to relieve,
The meadows incense breathe at eve :
No riot mars the simple fare
That o'er a glimmering hearth they share :-
But when the curfew's measur'd roar

Duly, the darkening valleys o'er,
Has echoed from the distant town,
They wish no beds of cygnet-down,
No trophicd canopy to close

Their drooping eyes in quick repose.

Their little sons, who spread the bloom Of health around the clay-built room, Or through the primros'd coppice stray, Or gambol on the new mown hay; Or quaintly braid the cowslip twine, Or drive afield the tardy kine; Or hasten from the sultry hill To loiter at the shady rill; Or climb the tall pine's gloomy, crest

To rob the raven's ancient nest.

Their humble porch with honied flowers The curling woodbine's shades embowers : From the trim garden's thymy mound Their bee's in busy swarms resound: Nor fell Decease, before his time, Hastes to consume life's golden prime:

But when their temples long have wore,
The silver crown of tresses boar;
As studious still calm peace to keep,
Beneath a flowery turf they sleep.

WARTON,

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.

This world is all a fleeting show,

For man's illusion given :
The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow-

There's nothing true but Heaven!

And false the light on Glory's plume,

As fading hues of even ; And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom,

Are blossoms gathered for the tomb

There's nothing bright but Heaven !

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we're driven, And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled way

There's nothing calm but Heaven!

MOORE.

NATURE.

The fair smile of morning,

The glory of noon,
The bright stars adorning,

The path of the moon,
The mist-cover'd mountain,

The valley and plain,