And can retain,

For age and pain,

A fraction, we are rich indeed.

No dread of toil have we or ours;

We know our worth, and weigh our powers; The more we work, the more we win;

Success to Trade!

Success to Spade!

And to the Corn that's coming in! And joy to him, who o'er his task Remembers toil is Nature's plan; Who, working, thinks—

And never sinks

His independence as a man.

Who only asks for humblest wealth,
Enough for competence and health;
And leisure, when his work is done,
To read his book,

By chimney nook,

Or stroll at setting of the sun.
Who toil as every man should toil

For fair reward, erect and free :
These are the men-

The best of men

These are the men we mean to be!

When fields were dight with blossoms white, and leaves of lively green,

The May-pole rear'd its flowery head, and dancing round

were seen

A youthful band, join'd hand in hand, with shoon and kirtle trim,

And softly rose the melody of Flora's morning hymn.

Her garlands, too, of varied hue the merry milkmaid

wove,

And Jack the piper caprioled within his dancing grove; Will, Friar Tuck, and Little John, with Robin Hood their

king,

Bold foresters! blythe choristers! made vale and mountain ring.

On every spray blooms lovely May, and balmy zephrys breathe

Ethereal splendour all above! and beauty all beneath! The cuckoo's song the woods among sounds sweetly as of

old;

As bright and warm the sunbeams shine,—and why should hearts grow cold?

OLD voices of the night-wind! varying tones,

Familiar all; my childhood's lullabies,

All dear: both angry gust that howls and moans, And madly wrestles with rock-rooted trees,—

Winning a worthless spoil of withered leaves, And softly whispering sigh of summer breeze, Stirring the silver crest of moonlit sheaves.

Old voices of the night-wind! ye are come To murmur mournful things beneath our eaves: Your wailings waken from oblivion dumb

The glimmering twilight of my being's prime, Dear, dewy morning! memories of my homeThat soft green vale that sent me forth to climb Those daily steeper, stonier slopes of Time.

LINES,

On hearing that the Mayor of Bath had been requested to exert his authority, and prevent shaving on Sundays!

66

Q. IN THE CORNER. FROM THE LITERARY GAZETTE."

THOU shalt not shave on Sundays; to be saved,
None must henceforth shave others, or be shaved;
No mortal shall be found, when shutters close,
To take his fellow mortal by the nose;
No man of suds must let a stranger in,
Or pass unholy razors o'er his chin;
Spread filthy lather on the Sabbath day,
Or scrape a week's unseemliness away.
Should swain, or barber, mar a six days' growth
Upon the seventh,-ruin seize them both :-
And doubtless, by some newly-garbled text,
Washing and combing will be sinful next.
Whilst evils so minute our minds engage,
In virtue, this must be a golden age
Or is it flimsy leaf, which thinly spread
O'er mere externals, gilds an age of lead?

Whilst they preserve such sanctity without,
Are men more pure in deeds, and more devout?
Do they on show alone their care bestow?

Or have they "that within which passes show?"
Oh! impious question; oh! most naughty doubt!
Their sanctity can ne'er abide without;

Their love of Sunday beards, their dread of sin,
Are kindred emanations from within;

All are, in truth, as pure as they appear,
And every thing is gold that glitters here!
So much they strive to purify the heart,
They scorn to purify the carnal part;
They pray with untrimm'd sanctity of face,
And e'en their very beards must grow in grace;
Each holy hair demands a world's applause,
Hairs left to flourish in a blessed cause;

And midst those beards, when every razor rests,
Small birds of paradise shall build their nests.
If any doubt them, look around and view

Their systems, and their reformations too:

New schemes, new schools, new lights, new sects arise;
New paths of peace; new short cuts to the skies;
New doctrines to each scripture text belong,
And all we once thought right, is reckon'd wrong.
And mark the consequence :-in modern times,
How scarce are sinners! and how rare are crimes!
Our penitentiaries are void within!

Now none need penitence, since none know sin!
From Judges' lips no awful doom is heard!

And Prison, is become an empty word!