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Drops chase each other down his breast and sides,
And spatter'd mud his native colour hides :
Through his swoln veins the boiling torrent flows,
And every nerve a separate torture knows.
His harness loosed, he welcomes eager-eyed
The pail's full draught that quivers by his side ;
And joys to see the well-known stable door,
As the starved mariner the friendly shore.

Ah, well for him if here his suffering ceased,
And ample hours of rest his pains appeased !
But roused again, and sternly bade to rise,
And shake refreshing slumber from his eyes,
Ere his exhausted spirits can return,
Or through his frame reviving ardour burn,
Come forth he must, though limping, maim'd, and sore,
He hears the whip—the chaise at the door!
The collar tightens, and again he feels
His half heal'd wounds inflamed, again the wheels
With tiresome sameness in his ears resound,
O'er blinding dust, or miles of flinty ground.
Thus nightly robb’d, and injured day by day,
His piece-meal murderers wear his life away.
What say'st thou, Dobbin? what though hounds await
With open jaws the moment of thy fate,
No better fate attends his public race;
His life is misery, and his end disgrace.
Then freely bear thy burden to the mill;
Obey but one short law,-thy driver's will,
Affection to thy memory ever true,
Shall boast of mighty loads that Dobbin drew,
And back to childhood shall the mind with pride
Recount thy gentleness in many a ride
To pond, or field, or village fair, when thou
Held'st high thy braided mane and comely brow,
And oft the tale shall rise to homely fame
Upon thy gen'rous spirit and thy name.

RICHARD AND KATE,

OR FAIR DAY.

(A Suffolk Ballad.) “Come, Goody, stop your humdrum wheel,

Sweep up your orts, and get your hat; Old joys revived once more I feel,

'Tis Fair day; ay, and more than that.

“Have you forgot, Kate, prithee say,

How many seasons here we've tarried ? 'Tis forty years this very day,

Since you and I, old girl, were married !

“For I'm resolved once more to see

That place where we so often met; Though few have had more cares than we,

We've none just now to make us fret.”

Kate scorn'd to damp the gen'rous flame

That warm'd her aged partner's breast, Yet ere determination came,

She thus some trifling doubts expressed.

“ Night will come on; when seated snug,

And you've perhaps begun some tale, Can you then leave your dear stone mug;

Leave all the folks, and all the ale?”

Ay Kate, I wooll, because I know,

Though time has been we both could run, Such days are gone and over now;

I only mean to see the fun.”

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The day was up, the air serene,

The firmament without a cloud ; The bee hummid o'er the level green

Where knots of trembling cowslips bow'd.

And Richard thus, with heart elate,

As past things rush'd across his mind, Over his shoulder talk'd to Kate,

Who, snug tuck'd up, walked on behind,

Now friendly nods and smiles had they

From many a kind fair-going face ; And many a pinch Kate gave away,

While Richard kept his usual pace.

At length arrived amidst the throng,

Grand-children bawling hemm'd them round, And dragg'd them by the skirts along Where gingerbread bestrew'd the ground.

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And soon the aged couple spied

Their lusty sons and daughters dear; When Richard thus exulting cried,

“ Didn't I tell you they'd be here ?”

'Twas good to see the honest strife,

Which should contribute most to please ; And hear the long-recounted life

Of infant tricks and happy days.

But now, as at some nobler places,

Amongst the leaders 'twas decreed Time to begin the Dicky Races,

More famed for laughter than for speed.

Richard look'd on with wondrous glee,

And praised the lad who chanced to win; “Kate, wa'nt I such a one as he ?

As like him, aye, as pin to pin.

“Full fifty years are pass'd away,

Since I rode this same ground about; Lor', I was lively as the day,

I won the High-lows out and out !"

Thus spoke the ale in Richard's pate,

A very little made him mellow, But still he loved his faithful Kate,

Who whisper'd thus, “My good old fellow,

“Remember what you promised me,

And see, the sun is getting low; The children want an hour ye see

To talk a bit before we go."

Kate viewed her blooming daughters round,

And sons, who shook her wither'd hand : Her features spoke what joy she found,

But utterance had made a stand.

The children toppled on the green,

And bowld their fairings down the hill; Richard with pride beheld the scene,

Nor could he for his life sit still,

A father's uncheck'd feelings gave

A tenderness to all he said : “My boys, how proud am I to have

My name thus round the country spread !

“Through all my days I've laboured hard,

And could of pains and crosses tell; But this is labour's great reward,

To meet ye thus and see ye well.

“My good old partner, when at home,

Sometimes with wishes mingles tears ; Goody, says I, let what wooll come,

We've nothing for them but our prayers.

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Thou, Filial Piety, wert there;

And round the ring, benignly bright, Dwelt in the luscious half-shed tear,

And in the parting words—"Good night.”

With thankful hearts and strengthen'd love,

The poor old, pair, supremely blest, Saw the sun sink behind the grove,

And gain'd once more their lowly rest.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

THE POET AND HIS POETRY.

ROBERT SOUTHEY. (Poet Laureate,) was born at Bristol, in 1774, in which place his father carried on an extensive business as a linen draper. Mr. Southey was first educated under Mr. Foote, a baptist minister of great talent, from whom he is said to have imbibed those "crude notions,” which exhibited themselves in his early writings. He was afterwards removed to Westminster School, and thence to Oxford, where he was entered a student of Baliol Col. lege, with a view to the church to which however he was not at that time partial. In 1801, Mr. Southey was appointed Secretary to the Right Honourable Isaac Corry, Chancellor of the Exchequer for Ireland, but retired from office with his patron. In 1813, on the death of Mr. Pye, he succeeded to the office of Poet Laureate.

Southey has written a great deal, both verse and prose. His early poetical productions were disfigured by party politics, but nevertheless contain evidence of powerful genius: “Wat Tyler," "Joan of Arc," and "Thalaba,” abound in rich descriptions, and are full of passion and feeling. Latterly the author has written little but prose, and his “Life of Lord Nelson,” “Life of Westley,” “History of the Peninsula,” and “Book of the Church,” are considered fine specimens of English composition; his prose has been preferred to his poetry and not without reason, for while one may exhibit the man of feeling and imagination, the other exhibits the most splendid proofs of a richly stored mind, an impartial judgment, and sets forth in every page the frankness and candour of an honest man.]

EXTRACTS FROM SOUTHEY.

THE MAID OF THE INN.

Who is she, the poor maniac ! whose wildly fix'd eyes

Seem a heart overcharged to express ?
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs ;
She never complains-but her silence-implies

The composure of settled distress!

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