This shrubby belt that runs the land around,
Shuts freedom out! what being likes a bound?
The shrubs indeed and ill-placed flowers are gay,
And some would praise ; I wish they were away,
That in the wild-wood maze I as of old might stray.
The things themselves are pleasant to behold,
But not like those that we beheld, of old,-
That half-hid mansion, with its wide domain,
Unbound and unsubdued!—but sighs are vain;
It is the rage of taste the rule and compass reign!
As thus my spleen upon the view I fed,
A man approach'd me, by his grandchild led-
A blind old man, and she a fair young maid,
Listening in love to what her grandsire said.
And thus with gentle voice he spoke :
"Come, lead me, lassie, to the shade,
Where willows grow beside the brook;
For well I know the sound it made,
When, dashing o'er the stony rill,
It murmur'd to S't Osyth's mill."
The lass replied: "The trees are fled,
They've cut the brook a straiter bed:
No shades the present lords allow,
The miller only murmurs now."
"Then, lassie, lead thy grandsire on,
And to the holy water bring :
A cup is fastened to the stone,
And I would taste its healing spring,
That soon its rocky cist forsakes,
And green its mossy passage makes."
"The holy spring is turned aside,
The rock is gone, the stream is dried;
The plough has levell'd all around,
And here is now no holy ground."
“Then, lass, thy grandsire's footsteps guide
To Bulmer's tree, the giant oak,
Whose boughs the keeper's cottage hide,
And part the church-way lane o'erlook.
A boy I climb'd the topmost bough,
And would feel its shadow now.
Or, lassie, lead me to the we. t,
Where grow the elm-trees thick and tall,
Where rooks unnumber'd build their nest,
Deliberate birds and prudent all:
Their notes, indeed, are harsh and rude,
But they're a social multitude.”
"The rooks are shot, the trees are felled,
And nurse and nursery all expelled ;
With better fate the giant tree,
Old Bulmer's oak, is gone to sea.
The church-way walk is now no more
And men must other ways explore:
Though this indeed promotion gains,
For this the park's new wall contains:
And here I fear we shall not meet
A shade; although, perchance, a seat."
"O then, my lassie, lead the way
To Comfort's Hope, the ancient inn ;
That something holds, if we can pay :
Old David is our living kin;
A servant once, he still preserves
His place, and in his office serves."
"Alas! that mine should be the fate
Old David's sorrows to relate:
But they were brief; not long before
He died, his office was no more.
The kennel stands upon the ground,
With something of the former sound."
"O then," the grieving man replied,
"No further, lassie, let me stray :
Here's nothing left of ancient pride,
Of what was grand, of what was gay:
But all is changed, is lost, is sold,
All, all that's left is chilling cold.
I seek for comfort here in vain,
Then lead me to my cot again."
Two summers since I saw at Lammas Fair, The sweetest flower that ever blossom'd there,
When Phoebe Dawson gaily crossed the green,
In haste to see and happy to be seen :
Her air, her manners, all who saw admired;
Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired;
The joy of youth and health her eyes displayed,
And ease of heart her every look conveyed,
A native skill her simple robes expressed,
As with untutor'd elegance she dressed;
The lads around admired so fair a sight,
And Phoebe felt, and felt she gave, delight.
Admirers soon of every age she gained,
Her beauty won them and her worth retained;
Envy itself could no contempt display,
They wished her well whom yet they wished away.
Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place
Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace;
But yet on Sunday-eve in freedom's hour,
With secret joy she felt that beauty's power,
When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal,
That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel.
At length the youth ordained to move her breast,
Before the swains with bolder spirits pressed;
With looks less timid made his passion known,
And pleased by manners most unlike her own;
Loud though in love, and confident though young;
Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue;
By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade,
He served the squire, and brushed the coat he made.
Yet now, would Phoebe her consent afford,
Her slave alone, again he'd mount the board;
With her should years of growing love be spent,
And growing wealth:-she sighed and looked consent.
Now through the lane, up hill, and 'cross the green,
Seen by but few, and blushing to be seen-
Dejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,
Led by the lover, walked the silent maid :
Slow through the meadows roved they, many a mile,
Toy'd by each bank, and trifled at each stile;
Where, as he painted every blissful view,
And highly coloured what he strongly drew,
The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears,
Dimmed the false prospect with prophetic tears.
Thus passed th' allotted hours, till, lingering late,
The lover loitered at the master's gate;
There he pronounced adieu! and yet would stay,
Till chidden-soothed-entreated-forced away;
He would of coldness, though indulged, complain,
And oft retire, and oft return again;
When, if his teasing vexed her gentle mind,
The grief assumed compelled her to be kind!
For he would proof of plighted kindness crave,
That she resented first and then forgave,
And to his grief and penance yielded more
Than his presumption had required before.
Ah! fly temptation, youth; refrain! refrain! Each yielding maid and each presuming swain! Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, And torn green gown loose hanging at her back, One who an infant in her arms sustains,
And seems in patience striving with her pains;
Pinched are her looks, as one who pines for bread,
Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are fled;
Pale her parched lips, her heavy eyes sunk low,
And tears unnoticed from their channels flow;
Serene her manner, till some sudden pain
Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again :
Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes,
And every step with cautious terror makes;
For not alone that infant in her arms,
But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms.
With water burthen'd, then she picks her way,
Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay;
Till, in mid-green, she trusts a place unsound,
And deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground:
Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she takes,
While hope the mind as strength the frame forsakes :
For when so full the cup of sorrow grows,
Add but a drop it instantly o'erflows.
And now her path but not her peace she gains,
Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains;
Her home she reaches, open leaves the door,
And placing first her infant on the floor,
She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits,
And sobbing struggles with the rising fits:
In vain, they come, she feels th' inflating grief,
That shuts the swelling bosom from relief :
That speaks in feeble cries a soul distressed,
Or the sad laugh that cannot be repressed.
The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel and flies
With all the aid her poverty supplies:
Unfee'd, the calls of Nature she obeys,
Not led by profit, not allured by praise;
And waiting long, till these contentions cease,
She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace.
Friend of distress! the mourner feels thy aid,
She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid.
But who this child of weakness, want, and care?
'Tis Phoebe Dawson, pride of Lammas Fair :
Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes,
Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies:
Compassion first assailed her gentle heart,
For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart:
And then his prayers! they would a savage move,
And win the coldest of the sex to love :-
But ah! too soon his looks success declared,
Too late her loss the marriage-rite repaired;
The faithless flatterer then his vows forgot;
A captious tyrant or a noisy sot:
If present, railing, till he saw her pained;
If absent, spending what their labours gained;
Till that fair form in want and sickness pined,
And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind.
Then fly temptation, youth: resist, refrain!
Nor let me preach for ever and in vain!
CCLII. MRS ANNE GRANT, 1754-1838
THE HIGHLAND WIDOW.
Where yonder ridgy mountains bound the scene,
The narrow opening glens that intervene
Still shelter, in some lowly nook obscure,
One poorer than the rest, where all are poor;
Some widow'd matron, hopeless of relief,
Who to her secret breast confines her grief,
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