GEORGE CRABBE. 1754-1832.

A Gipsy Encampment.

O! a hollow on the left appeared,

And there a Gipsy tribe their tent had reared;
'T was open spread, to catch the morning sun,
And they had now their early meal begun,
When two brown boys just left their grassy seat,
The early Traveller with their prayers to greet.
While yet Orlando held his pence in hand,
He saw their sister on her duty stand;
Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly,
Prepared the force of early powers to try.
Sudden a look of languor he descries,

And well-feigned apprehension in her eyes;
Trained, but yet savage, in her speaking face
He marked the features of her vagrant race;
When a light laugh and roguish leer expressed
The vice implanted in her youthful breast.
Forth from the tent her elder brother came,
Who seemed offended, yet forbore to blame
The young designer, but could only trace
The looks of pity in the Traveller's face.
Within, the father, who from fences nigh
Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply,
Watched now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected by.
On ragged rug, just borrowed from the bed,
And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed,
In dirty patchwork negligently dressed,
Reclined the wife, an infant at her breast:
In her wild face some touch of grace remained,

Of vigour palsied and of beauty stained;

Her bloodshot eyes on her unheeding mate

Were wrathful turned, and seemed her wants to state,

Cursing his tardy aid. Her mother there

With Gipsy state engrossed the only chair;
Solemn and dull her look: with such she stands
And reads the milkmaid's fortune in her hands,
Tracing the lines of life: assumed through years,
Each feature now the steady falsehood wears;

With hard and savage eye she views the food,
And grudging pinches their intruding brood.
Last in the group, the worn-out grandsire sits,
Neglected, lost, and living but by fits:
Useless, despised, his worthless labours done,
And half protected by the vicious son,
Who half supports him; he with heavy glance
Views the young ruffians who around him dance,
And, by the sadness in his face, appears

To trace the progress of their future years.

WAS morn, and beautiful the mountain's browHung with the clusters of the bending vineShone in the early light, when on the Rhine We sailed, and heard the waters round the prow

In murmurs parting; varying as we go,

Rocks after rocks come forward and retire,
As some grey convent wall or sunlit spire
Starts up, along the banks, unfolding slow.
Here castles, like the prisons of despair,

Frown as we pass !- There, on the vineyard's side,
The bursting sunshine pours its streaming tide;

While Grief, forgetful amid scenes so fair,
Counts not the hours of a long Summer's day,

Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.

herwell.

HERWELL! how pleased along thy willowed edge

Erewhile I strayed; or when the Morn
began

To tinge aloft the turret's golden fan,
Or Evening glimmered o'er the sighing sedge;
And now, reclined upon thy banks once more,
I bid the pipe farewell, and that sad lay
Whose music on my melancholy way
I wooed, beneath thy willows waving hoar,
Seeking to rest-till the returning sun

Of joy beam out, as when heaven's humid
bow

Shines silent on the passing storm below;
Whate'er betide, yet something have 1 won

Of solace, that may bear me on serene,

Till Eve's dim hand shall close the sinking scene.