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The Mauritanian and Cathaian kings
Already tremble, and the unbaptized Turk
Dreads war from utmost Thule ; uncontrolled
The British navy through the ocean vast
Shall wave her double cross, to extremest climes
Terrific, and return with odorous spoils
Of Araby well fraught, or Indus' wealth,
Pearl, and barbaric gold ; meanwhile the swains
Shall unmolested reap, what plenty strews
From well-stored horn, rich grain, and timely fruits.

The elder year, Pomona, pleased, shall deck
With ruby-tinctured births, whose liquid store
Abundant, flowing in well-blended streams,
The natives shall applaud ; while glad they talk
Of baleful ills, caused by Bellona's wrath
In other realms ; where'er the British spread
Triumphant banners, or their fame has reached
Diffusive, to the utmost bounds of this
Wide universe, Silurian Cider borne
Shall please all tastes, and triumph o'er the vine.

Tusser's “November's Husbandry.”

At Hallontide, slaughter-time entereth in,
And then doth the husbandman's feasting begin :
From thence unto Shrovetide, kill now and then

Their offall for household the better will come.

Thy dredge 2 and thy barley go thresh out to malt,
Let maltster be cunning, else lose it thou shalt :
The increase of a seam 3 is a bushel for store ;
Bad else is the barley, or huswife much more.
Some useth to winnow, some useth to fan,
Some useth to cast it, as clean as they can.
For seed go and cast it ; for malting not so,
But get out the cockle, and then let it go.
Thresh barley as yet but as need shall require,
Fresh threshed for stover, thy cattle desire ;
And therefore that threshing forbear as ye may
Till Candlemas coming, for sparing of hay.
Such wheat as ye keep, for the baker to buy,
Unthreshéd till March, in the sheaf let it lie ;5
Lest foistiness take it, if sooner ye thresh it,
Although by oft turning ye seem to refresh it.
Save chaff of the barley, of wheat, and of rye,
From feathers and foistiness, where it doth lie ;
Which mixéd with corn, being sisted of dust,
Go give to thy cattle, when serve them ye must.
Green peason, or Hastings, at Hallontide sow,
In hearty good soil he requireth to grow :
Gray peason or runcivals, cheerly to stand,
At Candlemas sow, with a plentiful hand.
Leave latewardly rearing, keep now no more swine,
But such as thou mayst with the offal of thine.
Except ye have wherewith to fat them away,
The fewer thou keepest, keep better ye may.

1 Halloween time. ? A mixture of oats and barley.

8 One bushel to a seam, or quarter, increase to the maltster, though considerable is deemed moderate. - Mavor.

+ Stover is fodder of straw ; runcivals, a favorite pea.

6 Wheat works better in grinding and baking after undergoing a natural heat in the rick or mow. - Mavor.

To rear up much poultry, and want the barn door,
Is naught for the poulter, and worse for the poor ;
So now to keep hogs, and to starve them for meat,
Is as to keep dogs for to bawl in the street.
As cat a good mouser is needful in house,
Because for her commons she killeth the mouse ;
So ravening curs, as a many do keep,
Makes master want meat, and his dog to kill sheep.
For Easter, at Martilmas, hang up a beef,
For stall-fed and pease-fed play pickpurse the thief :
With that and the like, ere an grass beef come in,
Thy folk shall look cheerly, when others look thin.
Set garlic and beans at St. Edmond the king,
The moon in the wane, thereon hangeth a thing :
The encrease of a pottle (well proved of some)
Shall pleasure thy household, ere peasecod time

When rain is a let to thy doings abroad,
Set threshers a threshing, to lay on good load :
Thresh clean ye must bid them, though lesser they

earn, And, looking to thrive, have an eye to thy barn. Take heed to thy man, in his fury and heat, With ploughstaff and whipstock for maiming thy

neat, To thresher for hurting of cow with his flail, Or making thy hen to play tapple up tail. Some pilfering thresher will walk with a staff, Will carry home corn as it is in the chaff ; And some in his bottle of leather so great Will carry home, daily, both barley and wheat. If house-room will serve thee, lay stover up dry, And every sort, by itself for to lie ; Or stack it for litter, if roon be too poor, And thatch out the residue noying thy door. * *

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1 Hung or smoke-dried beef was formerly much more in use in England than at present. - Mavor.

2 St. Edmund's day is the 20th November.

Ballad for November.


TAKE, take away thy barbarous hand,

And let me to thy master speak;
Remit a while the harsh command,
And hear me, or my heart will break.

Fond wretch ! and what canst thou relate,

But deeds of sorrow, shame, and sin ? Thy crime is proved, thou know'st thy fate ;

But come, thy tale ! begin, begin !


My crime ! this sick’ning child to feed,

I seized the food, your witness saw ;
I knew your laws forbade the deed,

But yielded to a stronger law.
Know'st thou to Nature's great command

All human laws are frail and weak?
Nay! frown not — -stay his eager hand,

And hear me, or my heart will break. In this, th' adopted babe I hold

With anxious fondness to my breast, My heart's sole comfort I behold,

More dear than life, when life was blest. I saw her pining, fainting, cold,

I begged — but vain was my request. I saw the tempting food, and seized

My infant sufferer found relief ; And, in the pilfered treasure pleased,

Smiled on my guilt, and hushed my grief. But I have griefs of other kind,

Troubles and sorrows more severe ; Give me to ease my tortured mind,

Lend to my woes a patient ear ; And let me, if I may not find

A friend to help, find one to hear. Yet nameless let me plead

my name Would only wake the cry of scorn ; A child of sin, conceived in shame,

Brought forth in woe, to misery born. My mother dead, my father lost,

I wandered with a vagrant crew ; A common care, a common cost,

Their sorrows and their sins I knew; With them, on want and error forced,

Like them, I base and guilty grew. Few are my years, not so my crimes ;

The age, which these sad looks declare, Is sorrow's work, it is not time's,

And I am old in shame and care. Taught to believe the world a place

Where every stranger was a foe,

Trained in the arts that mark our race,

To what new people could I go? Could I a better life embrace,

Or live as virtue dictates? No! So through the land I wandering went,

And little found of grief or joy ; But lost my bosom's sweet content,

When first I loved the Gypsy-boy, A sturdy youth he was and tall,

His looks would all his soul declare, His piercing eyes were deep and small,

And strongly curled his raven hair. Yes, Aaron had each manly charm,

All in the May of youthful pride ;
He scarcely feared his father's arm,

And every other arm defied.
Oft when they grew in anger warm

(Whom will not love and power divide ?) I rose, their wrathful souls to calm,

Not yet in sinful combat tried, His father was our party's chief,

And dark and dreadful was his look ; His presence filled my heart with grief,

Although to me he kindly spoke. With Aaron I delighted went,

His favor was my bliss and pride ; In growing hope our days were spent,

Love growing charms in either spied ; It saw them all which nature lent,

It lent them all which she denied. Could I the father's kindness prize,

Or grateful looks on him bestow ; Whom I beheld in wrath arise,

When Aaron sank beneath his blow ? He drove him down with wicked hand,

It was a dreadful sight to see ; Then vexed him, till he left the land,

And told his cruel love to me ; The clan were all at his command,

Whatever his command might be. The night was dark, the lanes were deep,

And one by one they took their way; He bade me lay me down and sleep,

I only wept and wished for day. Accursed be the love he bore,

Acoursed was the force he used, So let him of his God implore

For mercy, and be so refused ! You frown again,

to show my wrong, Can I in gentle language speak? My woes are deep, my words are strong,

And hear me, or my heart will break.


I hear thy words, I feel thy pain ;

Forbear a while to speak thy woes ;
Receive our aid, and then again

The story of thy life disclose.
For though, seduced and led astray,

Thou 'st travelled far and wandered long, Thy God hath seen thee all the way,

And all the turns that led thee wrong. Come, now again thy woes impart,

Tell all thy sorrows, all thy sin; We cannot heal the throbbing heart,

Till we discern the wounds within. Compunction weeps our guilt away,

The sinner's safety is his pain ;
Our pangs for our offences pay,
And our severest griofs are gain.

The son came back -- he found us wed,

Then dreadful was the oath he swore ; His way through Blackburn Forest led,

His father we beheld no more. Of all our daring clan, not one

Would on the doubtful subject dwell ; For all esteemed the injured son,

And feared the tale which he could tell. But I had mightier cause for fear,

For slow and mournful round my bed I saw a dreadful form appear,

It came when I and Aaron wed. (Yes! we were wed ; I know my crime, —

We slept beneath the Elmin-tree ; But I was grieving all the time,

And Aaron frowned my tears to see. For he not yet had felt the pain

That rankles in a wounded breast; He waked to sin, then slept again,

Forsook his God, yet took his rest. But I was forced to feign delight,

And joy in mirth and music sought, And mem'ry now recalls the night,

With such surprise and horror fraught, That reason felt a moment's flight,

And left a mind, to madness wrought.) When waking, on my heaving breast

I felt a hand as cold as death ;
A sudden fear my voice suppressed,

A chilling terror stopped my breath.
I seemed - no words can utter how !

For there my father-husband stood, And thus he said : «Will God allow,

The great Avenger, just and good, A wife to break her marriage vow?

A son to shed his father's blood ?' I trembled at the dismal sounds,

But vainly strove a word to say ; So, pointing to his bleeding wounds,

The threat’ning spectre stalked away. I brought a lovely daughter forth,

His father's child in Aaron's bed ;

He took her from me in his wrath.

Where is my child ?' — Thy child is dead.' 'Twas false - we wandered far and wide,

Through town and country, field and fen, Till Aaron, fighting, fell and died,

And I became a wife again. I then was young:

- my husband sold My fancied charms for wicked price ; He

gave me oft, for sinful gold, The slave, but not the friend, of vice : – Behold me, Heaven! my pains behold,

And let them for my sins suffice ! The wretch who lent me thus for gain

Despised me when my youth was fled ; Then came disease and brought me pain :

Come, death, and bear me to the dead ! For, though I grieve, my grief is vain,

And fruitless all the tears I shed. True, I was not to virtue trained,

Yet well I knew my deeds were ill ;
By each offence my heart was pained, -

I wept, but I offended still ;
My better thoughts my life disdained,

But yet the viler led my will.
My husband died, and now no more

My smile was sought, or asked my hand;
A widowed vagrant, vile and poor,

Beneath a vagrant's vile command. Ceaseless I roved the country round,

To win my bread by fraudful arts, And long a poor subsistence found,

By spreading nets for simple hearts. Though poor, and abject, and despised,

Their fortunes to the crowd I told ; I gave the young the love they prized,

And promised wealth to bless the old ; Schemes for the doubtful I devised,

And charms for the forsaken sold. At length, for arts like these confined

In prison with a lawless crew, I soon perceived a kindred mind,

And there my long-lost daughter knew, His father's child, whom Aaron gave

To wander with a distant clan, The miseries of the world to bravo,

And be the slave of vice and man. She knew my name - we met in pain,

Our parting pangs can I express ? She sailed a convict o'er the main,

And left an heir to her distress. This is that heir to shame and pain,

For whom I only could descry A world of trouble and disdain :

Yet could I bear to see her die,
Or stretch her feeble hands in vain,

And weeping beg of me supply?
No! though the fate thy mother knew

Was shameful ! shameful though thy race Have wandered all, a lawless crew,

Outcasts, despised in every place ;

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Command thy heart and bend thy knee ; There is to all a pardon brought,

A ransom rich, assured, and free ; 'T is full when found, 't is found if sought;

0! seek it, till 't is sealed to thee.


But how my pardon shall I know?

Yet as the dark and muddy tide,

When far from its polluted source, Becomes more pure, and purified,

Flows in a clear and happy course ; In thee, dear infant ! so may end

Our shame, in thee our sorrows cease ! And thy pure course will then extend,

In floods of joy, o'er vales of peace. 0! by the God who loves to spare,

Deny me not the boon I crave : Let this loved child your mercy share,

And let me find a peaceful grave ; Make her yet spotless soul your care,

And let my sins their portion have ; Her for a better fate prepare,

And punish whom 't were sin to save !


By feeling dread that 't is not sent,

By tears for sin that freely flow,
By grief, that all thy tears are spent ;

By thoughts on that great debt we owe, With all the mercy God has lent;

By suffering what thou canst not show, Yet showing how thine heart is rent,

Till thou canst feel thy bosom glow, And say, “My Saviour, I repent!'


Recall the word, renounce the thought,

Psalm of Praise for November, .


When first, in ancient time, from Jubal's tongue The tuneful anthem filled the morning air, To sacred hymnings and elysian song His music-breathing shell the minstrel woke. Devotion breathed aloud from every chord : – The voice of praise was heard in every tone, And prayer, and thanks to Him, the Eternal One, To Him, that with bright inspiration touched The high and gifted lyre of heavenly song, And warmed the soul with new vitality. A stirring energy through nature breathed :The voice of adoration from her broke, Swelling aloud in every breeze, and heard Long in the sullen waterfall, — what time Soft Spring or hoary Autumn threw on earth Its bloom or blighting, — when the Summer smiled, Or Winter o'er the year's sepulchre mourned. The Deity was there !- a nameless spirit Moved in the hearts of men to do Him homage And when the morning smiled, or evening pale Hung weeping o'er the melancholy urn, They came beneath the broad o'erarching trees, And in their tremulous shadow worshipped oft, Where the palo vine clung round their simple altars, And gray moss mantling hung. Above was heard The melody of winds, breathed out as the green trees Bowed to their quivering touch in living beauty, And birds sang forth their cheerful hymns. Below, The bright and widely wandering rivulet Struggled and gushed amongst the tangled roots, That choked its reedy fountain — and dark rocks Worn smooth by the constant current. Even there The listless

that stole with mellow voice Where reeds grew rank upon the rushy brink,


And to the wandering wind the green sedge bent,
Sang a sweet song of fixed tranquillity.
Men felt the heavenly influence — and it stole
Like balm into their hearts, till all was peace ;
And even the air they breathed — the light they
Became religion; — for the ethereal spirit, [saw-
That to soft music wakes the chords of feeling,
And mellows everything to beauty, moved
With cheering energy within their breasts,
And made all holy there — for all was love.
The morning stars, that sweetly sang together-
The moon, that hung at night in the mid-sky-
Dayspring - and eventide — and all the fair
And beautiful forms of Nature, had a voice
Of eloquent worship. Ocean with its tides
Swelling and deep, where low the infant storm
Hung on his dun, dark cloud, and heavily beat
The pulses of the sea, sent forth a voice
Of awful adoration to the spirit,
That, wrapt in darkness, moved upon its face.
And when the bow of evening arched the east,
Or, in the moonlight pale, the gentle wave
Kissed with a sweet embrace the sea-worn beach,
And the wild song of winds came o'er the waters,
The mingled melody of wind and wave
Touched like a heavenly anthem on the ear ;
For it arose a tuneful hymn of worship.
And have our hearts grown cold? Are there on earth
No pure reflections caught from heavenly lore?
Have our mute lips no hymn — our souls no song?
Let him, that in the summer-day of youth
Keeps pure the holy fount of youthful feeling, -
And him, that in the nightfall of his years
Lies down in his last sleep, and shuts in peace
His weary eyes on life's short wayfaring,
Praise Him that rules the destiny of man.



The Fourth of the Seasons.




Or seen the deep-fermenting tempest brewed
In the grim evening sky. Thus passed the time,

Till through the lucid chambers of the south
The subject proposed Address to the Earl of Wilmington.
First approach of Winter. According to the natural

Looked out the joyous Spring, looked out, and smiled. course of the season, various storms described. Rain.

COMPLIMENTS TO THE EARL OF WILMINGTON. Wind. Snow. The driving of the snows ; a man perishing among them ; whence reflections on the wants and To thee, the patron of her first essay, miseries of human life. The wolves descending from the

The Muse, 0 Wilmington ! renews her song. Alps and Apennines. A winter evening described ; as spent by philosophers ; by the country people ; in the

Since has she rounded the revolving year : city. Frost. A view of Winter within the polar circle. Skimmed the gay Spring; on eagle pinions borne, A thaw. The whole concluding with moral reflections on a future state.

Attempted through the Summer blaze to rise ;
Then swept o'er Autumn with the shadowy gale ;

And now among the Wintry clouds again,
SEE, Winter comes, to rule the varied year, Rolled in the doubling storm, she tries to soar ;
Sullen and sad, with all his rising train, [theme, To swell her note with all the rushing winds ;
Vapors, and clouds, and storms. Be these my | To suit her sounding cadence to the floods ;
These ! that exalt the soul to solemn thought, As is her theme, her numbers wildly great :
And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms! Thrice happy could she fill thy judging ear
Congenial horrors, hail ! with frequent foot, With bold description, and with manly thought.
Pleased have I, in my cheerful morn of life, Nor art thou skilled in awful schemes alone,
When nursed by careless Solitudo I lived,

And how to make a mighty people thrive ;
And sung of Nature with unceasing joy, [main ; But equal goodness, sound integrity,
Pleased have I wandered through your rough do- A firm, unshaken, uncorrupted soul
Trod the pure virgin-snows, myself as pure ; Amid a sliding age, and burning strong,
Heard the winds roar, and the big torrent burst ; Not vainly blazing, for thy country's weal,

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