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Thy spirits frolicsome as good,
Cold turf which I no more must view,
William Gifford.-Born 1756, Died 1826.
Though clouds obscured the morning hour,
All soon, propitious to our prayer, Gave promise of a brighter day; The clouds dispersed in purer air,
The blasts in zephyrs died away.
So have we, love, a day enjoy'd,
On which we both-and yet, who knows?
May dwell with pleasure unalloy'd,
And dread no thorn beneath the rose.
How pleasant, from that dome-crown'd hill,
How sweet, as indolently laid,
We overhung that long-drawn dale, To watch the chequer'd light and shade That glanced upon the shifting sail!
And when the shadow's rapid growth
Proclaim'd the noon-tide hour expired, And, though unwearied, "nothing loath," We to our simple meal retired;
The sportive wile, the blameless jest, The careless mind's spontaneous flow, Gave to that simple meal a zest
Which richer tables may not know.
The babe that on the mother's breast
Looks up to catch a parting smile;
Feels less assured than thou, dear maid,
That lightly o'er thy features stole, From vows repaid (my sweet employ),
From truth, from innocence of soul:
While every word dropt on my ear
So soft (and yet it seem'd to thrill), So sweet that 'twas a heaven to hear, And e'en thy pause had music still.
And O! how like a fairy dream
To gaze in silence on the tide,
And many a thought of fancy bred,
So hours like moments wing'd their flight,
Recall'd us by the dashing oar.
Well, Anna, many days like this
I cannot, must not hope to share; For I have found an hour of bliss
Still follow'd by an age of care.
Yet oft when memory intervenes—
1143.-TO A TUFT OF EARLY VIOLETS.
Retire, retire! these tepid airs
Are not the genial brood of May;
Stern winter's reign is not yet past-
And nips your root, and lays you low.
Alas, for such ungentle doom!
But I will shield you, and supply A kindlier soil on which to bloom, A nobler bed on which to die.
Come then, ere yet the morning ray
Has drunk the dew that gems your crest
Ye droop, fond flowers! but, did ye know
What worth, what goodness there reside, Your cups with liveliest tints would glow, And spread their leaves with conscious pride;
1148.-DR. JOHNSON'S STYLE.
I own I like not Johnson's turgid style,
Sets wheels on wheels in motion-such a clatter
To force up one poor nipperkin of water;
1149.-ADVICE TO LANDSCAPE
Whate'er you wish in landscape to excel,
There's very little landscape in a garret.
'Tis badly copying them for goats and sheep;
A rushlight in a bottle's neck, or stick,
I think, too, that a man would be a fool,
Or even by them to represent a stump : Also by broomsticks-which, though well he rig
Each with an old fox-colour'd wig,
Must make a very poor autumnal clump.
High stations are like Dover's towering cliffs, Where ships below appear like little skiffs,
The people walking on the strand like
Muse, sing the stir that happy Whitbread made:
Poor gentleman! most terribly afraid
He should not charm enough his guests divine,
He gave his maids new aprons, gowns, and smocks;
And lo! two hundred pounds were spent in frocks,
To make the apprentices and draymen fine:
Amidst the Whitbread rout of preparation,
Now moved king, queen, and princesses so grand,
To visit the first brewer in the land; Who sometimes swills his beer and grinds his meat
In a snug corner, christen'd Chiswell Street; But oftener, charm'd with fashionable air, Amidst the gaudy great of Portman Square.
Lord Aylesbury, and Denbigh's lord also,
His Grace the Duke of Montague likewise, With Lady Harcourt join'd the raree show, And fix'd all Smithfield's wond'ring eyes: For lo! a greater show ne'er graced those quarters,
Since Mary roasted, just like crabs, the martyrs.
Thus was the brewhouse fill'd with gabbling noise,
Whilst draymen, and the brewer's boys, Devour'd the questions that the king did ask;
In different parties were they staring seen, Wond'ring to think they saw a king and queen!
Behind a tub were some, and some behind a cask.
Now majesty into a pump so deep