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Untouch'd his cottage, and his slumbers sound,
Tho' confiscation's vultures hover round.
The needy traveller, serene and gay,

Walks the wild heath, and sings his toil away.
Does envy seize thee? crush the upbraiding joy,
Increase his riches and his peace destroy,
Now fears in dire vicissitude invade,

The rustling brake alarms, and quiv'ring shade,
Nor light nor darkness bring his pain relief,
One shows the plunder, and one hides the thief.
Unnumber'd suppliants crowd Preferment's gate,
Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great;
Delusive Fortune hears th' incessant call,
They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall.
On ev'ry stage the foes of peace attend,

Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their end.
Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman's door'
Pours in the morning worshipper no more;
For growing names the weekly scribbler lies,
To growing wealth the dedicator flies;
From ev'ry room descends the painted face,
That hung the bright palladium of the place,
And smok'd in kitchens, or in auctions sold,
To better features yields the frame of gold;
For now no more we trace in ev'ry line
Heroic worth, benevolence divine:
The form distorted justifies the fall,
And detestation rids th' indignant wall.

In full-blown dignity, see Wolsey stand,
Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand :

To him the church, the realm, their pow'rs consign;
Thro' him the rays of regal bounty shine;
Turn'd by his nod the stream of honour flows,
His smile alone security bestows:

Still to new heights his restless wishes tow'r;
Claim leads to claim, and pow'r advances pow'r;
Till conquest unresisted ceas'd to please,
And rights submitted, left him none to seize.
At length his sov'reign frowns-the train of state
Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate.
Where'er he turns he meets a stranger's eye,
His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly;
Now drops at once the pride of awful state,
The golden canopy, the glitt'ring plate,
The regal palace, the luxurious board,
The liv'ried army, and the menial lord.

With age, with cares, with maladies oppress'd,

He seeks the refuge of monastic rest.

Grief aids disease, remember'd folly stings,

And his last sighs reproach the faith of Kings.

Speak thou, whose thoughts at humble peace repine, Shall Wolsey's wealth, with Wolsey's end be thine? Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride content, The wisest Justice on the banks of Trent? For why did Wolsey near the steeps of fate,

On weak foundations raise th' enormous weight?

Why but to sink beneath misfortune's blow,
With louder ruin to the gulphs below?

On what foundation stands the warrior's pride,
How just his hopes let Swedish Charles decide;
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire,

No dangers fright him, and no labours tire;
O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain,
Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain;
No joys to him pacific, sceptres yield,

War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field;
Behold surrounding kings their pow'r combine,

And one capitulate, and one resign;

Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain; "Think nothing gain'd, he cries, till nought remain,

On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly,

And all be mine beneath the polar sky."

The march begins in military state,

And nations on his eye suspended wait;
Stern famine guards the solitary coast,
And winter barricades the realms of frost;
He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay;-
Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day :
The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands,
And shews his miseries in distant lands;
Condemn'd a needy supplicant to wait,
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate.
But did not chance at length her error mend?
Did no subverted empire mark his end?
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound,
Or hostile millions press him to the ground?
His fall was destin'd to a barren strand,
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand;

He left the name, at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral, or adorn a tale.

Enlarge my life with multitude of days,

In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays;
Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know,
That life protracted is protracted woe.
Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy,
And shuts up all the passages of joy:

In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour,
The fruit autumnal, and the vernal flow'r,
With listless eyes the dotard views the store,
He views, and wonders that they please no more;
Now pall the tasteless meats, and joyless wines,
And luxury with sighs her slave resigns.
Approach, ye minstrels, try the soothing strain,
Diffuse the tuneful lenitives of pain:

No sounds, alas! would touch th' impervious ear,
Though dancing mountains witness'd Orpheus near;
Nor lute nor lyre his feeble pow'rs attend,

Nor sweeter music of a virtuous friend,
But everlasting dictates crowd his tongue,
Perversely grave, or positively wrong.
The still returning tale, and ling'ring jest,
Perplex the fawning niece and pamper'd guest,

While growing hopes scarce awe the gath'ring sneer,
And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear;

The watchful guests still hint the last offence,
The daughter's petulance, the son's expence,
Improve his heady rage with treach'rous skill,
And mould his passions till they make his will.
But grant, the virtues of a temp❜rate prime
Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime;
An age that melts with unperceiv'd decay,
And glides in modest innocence away;
Whose peaceful day benevolence endears,
Whose night congratulating conscience cheers;
The gen'ral fav'rite as the gen'ral friend:
Such age there is, and who shall wish its end?
Yet ev'n on this her load misfortune flings,
To press the weary minutes' flagging wings;
New sorrow rises as the day returns,
A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns.
Now kindred merit fills the sable bier,
Now lacerated friendship claims a tear.
Year chases year, decay pursues decay,
Still drops some joy from with'ring life away;
New forms arise, and diff'rent views engage,
Superfluous lags the vet'ran on the stage,
Till pitying nature signs the last release,
And bids afflicted worth retire to peace.

Where then shall hope and fear their objects find? Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind?

Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate,

Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate?

Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise,

No cries invoke the mercies of the skies?
Inquirer cease, petitions yet remain,

Which heav'n may hear, nor deem religion vain.
Still raise for good the supplicating voice,

But leave to heav'n the measure and the choice.
Safe in his pow'r, whose eyes discern afar
The secret ambush of a specious pray'r.
Implore his aid, in his decisions rest,
Secure whate'er he gives, he gives the best.
Yet when the sense of sacred presence fires,
And strong devotion to the skies aspires,
Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind,
Obedient passions, and a will resign'd;
For love, which scarce collective man can fill;
For patience, sov'reign o'er transmuted ill;
For faith, that panting for a happier seat,
Counts death kind nature's signal of retreat:
These goods for man the laws of heav'n ordain,

These goods he grants, who grants the power to gain;
With these celestial wisdom calms the mind,

And makes the happiness she does not find."

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THIS is the most interesting month of the year to a feeling and a devout heart. It is the month of harvest, when the industry of man is crowned with the blessing of God; and the sustenance for the future year is laid up in our garners, by the permission of the Almighty goodness, which filleth all the world with plenteousness. There can be no sight on earth more delightful than the view of an open corncountry, when the waving grain is falling before the hand of the reaper as he cuts his way through its luxuriant bosom; when the compact sheaves stand ready for their removal to the farmer's stores; when the loaded waggon moves slowly through the stubble to receive the abundance which lies around it; when the busy gleaners follow its scattering course, to collect the little portion which the custom of the primitive ages has bequeathed to their humble wants. The mind which can behold such a picture without emotions of love to God and man, is not to be envied for its cold and passionless construction. This is a season of joy; and he who does not yield to the inspiration around him neither thanks nor praises "the All-giver."

The season of harvest so completely calls up the pure and simple feelings which belong to poetry, that we may properly allow a liberal introduction of it in the present article. The following brief, though correct and beautiful description of a harvest-field, is from our favourite Thomson:

"Soon as the morning trembles o'er the sky,
And, unperceiv'd, unfolds the spreading day;
Before the ripened field the reapers stand,
In fair array; each by the lass he loves,
To bear the rougher part, and mitigate

By nameless gentle offices her toil.

At once they stoop and swell the lusty sheaves;
While thro' their chearful band the rural talk,

The rural scandal, and the rural jest,

Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time,
And steal unfelt the sultry hours away.

Behind the master walks, builds up the shocks;
And, conscious, glancing oft on every side
His sated eye, feels his heart heave with joy.
The gleaners spread around, and here and there,
Spike after spike, their scanty harvest pick.
Be not too narrow, husbandman! but fling
From the full sheaf, with charitable stealth,
The liberal handful. Think, oh think!
How good the God of harvest is to you,
Who pours abundance o'er your flowing fields;
While these unhappy partners of your kind
Wide hover round you, like the fowls of heaven,
And ask thecir humble dole. The various turns
Of fortune ponder; that your sons may want
What now, with hard reluctance, faint, ye give.

The custom of gleaning is one of the highest antiquity. We hope that every reader of our Miscellany is familiar with the beautiful story of Ruth, in the Bible. How delightful is the description of the poor girl's attachment to her aged and afflicted mother:-"And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee for whither thou goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God; where thou diest will I die, and there ill I be buried; the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me." How charmingly is the kindness and simplicity which regulated the intercourse of the master and the servant, in the early ages, thus depicted:" And, behold, Boaz came from Bethlehem, and said unto the reapers, the Lord be with you; and they answered him, the Lord bless thee." The rising affection of Boaz for the poor Ruth, and his kindness towards her, are most affectingly told :-“And when she was risen up to glean, Boaz commanded his young men, saying, Let her glean even among the sheaves, and reproach her not; and let fall some of the handfuls of purpose for her, and leave them that she may glean them, and rebuke her not." Every reader of the Bible of course has treasured up the remainder of the story,-the marriage of Ruth with her kind kinsman,-as one of the proof that in all stages of society, goodness and modesty have not failed even of their worldly rewards.

The same beautiful narrative has been very sweetly adapted by Thomson to the manners of modern times. We cannot resist the pleasure of extracting it, though it be of some length :

The lovely young Lavinia once had friends;
And fortune smil'd, deceitful, on her birth.
For, in her helpless years depriv'd of all,
Of every stay, save innocence and heaven,
She, with her widow'd mother, feeble, old,
And poor, liv'd in a cottage, far retir'd
Among the windings of a woody vale;
By solitude and deep surrounding shades,
But more by bashful modesty, conceal'd.
Together thus they shunn'd the cruel scorn
Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet
From giddy passion and low-minded pride:
Almost on nature's common bounty fed;
Like the gay birds that sung them to repose,
Content, and careless of to-morrow's fare.
Her form was fresher than the morning rose,
When the dew wets its leaves; unstain'd, and pure,
As is the lily, or the mountain snow,
The modest virtues mingled in her eyes,
Still on the ground dejected, darting all
Their humid beams into the blooming flowers:
Or when the mournful tale her mother told,
Of what her faithless fortune promis'd once,
Thrill'd in her thought, they, like the dewy star
Of evening, shone in tears. A native grace
Sat, fair-proportion'd, on her polish'd limbs,


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