Unpropp'd, unsuccoured by stake or tree,
From wreakful storms' impetuous tyranny,
When, had a willing hand lent kind redress,
Her pregnant branches might from out the press
Have sent a liquor, both for taste and show,
No less divine than those of Malligo."

NIGHT.

"The sable mantle of the silent Night
Shut from the world the ever-joysome light;
Care fled away, and softest slumbers please
To leave the court for lowly cottages;
Wild beasts forsook their dens on woody hills,

And sleightful otters left the purling rills;

Rooks to their nests in high woods now were flung,
And with their spread wings shield their naked young;
When thieves from thickets to the cross-ways stir,
And terror frights the lonely passenger;

When naught was heard but now and then the howl
Of some vile cur, or whooping of the owl."

MORNING.

"Twice had the cock crown, and in cities strong
The bellman's doleful noise and careful song;
Told men, whose watchful eyes no slumber bent,
What store of hours theft-guilty Night had spent."

DESOLATION.

"Near to the shore that bordered on the rock
No merry swain was seen to feed his flock,
No lusty neat-herd thither drove his kine,
Nor boorish hog-herd fed his rooting swine.
A stony ground it was, sweet herbage failed,
Naught there but weeds, which Limos, strongly nailed,

Tore from their mother's breast to stuff his maw;

No crab tree bore his load, nor thorn his haw:

As in a forest well complete with deer,

We see the hollies, ashes, everywhere

Robbed of their clothing by the browsing game;
So, near the rock, all trees, where'er you came,
To cold December's wrath stood void of bark.
Here danced no nymph, no early rising lark
Sung up the ploughman and his drowsy mate:
All round the rock was bare and desolate."

LOVERS PARTING.

"Look as a lover, with a lingering kiss,
About to part with the best half that's his;
Fain would he stay, but that he fears to do it,
And curseth time for so fast hastening to it;
Now takes his leave, and yet begins anew
To make less vows than are esteemed true;
Then says, he must be gone, and then doth find
Something he should have spoke that's out of mind;
And while he stands to look for it in her eyes,
Their sad sweet glance so tie his faculties,
To think from what he parts, that he is now
As far from leaving her, or knowing how,
As when he came; begins his former strain,
To kiss, to vow, and take his leave again;
Then turns, comes back, sighs, pants, and yet doth go,
Apt to retire, and loath to leave her so :-

So part I."

And so part we with reluctance from our task, not having quoted half the passages we had marked. But we have done enough to call attention to the writings of this sterling old English author, and have no doubt but that we shall soon see a cheap reprint of his works; for we are certain that they are calculated both to amend the head and heart.

Our extracts have not been fairly made, as we have attempted to give those which bear upon rural scenery, rather than such as are marked by their general bearing in the work, and the harmony of their connexion. Thus we have been compelled to break the sweet links of his

song, and very often to add a word or two of our own, to bring in the passages best suited for our purpose. We have, however, done a duty which we felt bound to accomplish; and although we are certain that it required abler hands than our own for such a task, yet have we done it to the best of our ability, conscious that, whatever may be the results, we mean well to our readers and the public.

Although we have not always made such quotations as our own judgment pointed out as the best, yet we do think, among those which we have selected, passages will be found of great and varied power; such as will prove that the author is a true genius, and that, if even he possesses nothing more, he is worthy of being placed among the best of our pastoral and rural poets. His close observation of nature we have in many instances so clearly pointed out, that no one can mistake the beauty of the passages. We could have been content to have read his works-to have taken them out with us into the fields, and there enjoyed their beauties alone, had we not felt it a duty to make others partakers of our enjoyment, and do something toward bringing about a more pure taste for poetry. We know our own position well; for, humble as it is, it gives us the power of doing either good or evil, to a limited extent; and we would not be numbered among those who labour without an object; and shall be disappointed if we do not make our readers acquainted with "Britannia's Pastorals and the Shepherd's Pipe," written by the almost forgotten William Browne.

Q

243

THE GAMEKEEPER'S HUT.

Oh! she was good as she was fair,
None-none on earth above her!
As pure in thought as angels are :
To know her was to love her.

ROGERS's Jacqueline.

IT has been one of my chief objects in this volume to give as much variety to the matter as I well could, that every reader might find something to suit his own particular taste. In my present sketch I purpose to give a simple love-story-a tale of a youth and a maiden who passed most of their hours in an old wood, and lived almost as secluded as ring-doves. He was one of those whom Fate seemed to have ordained for great things; then given up, as if she shrunk from fulfilling his destiny. But he is gone, like a flower which the river sweepeth away, and leaveth to perish on some untrodden margin; and she is also dead.

Strange was their meeting. He had wandered into the old wood to read Shakspeare's "Tempest," for the first time. Oh! how I envy the youth who has never read the Tempest, and has such a wood as that to wander in, with the soul of a poet to enjoy its inimitable beauties! One who can fancy that the rustling of the leaves is the sound of the ocean-that the singing of the birds is the wild music that floated around that lonely island-that the gloomy glen is the cavern in which Prospero and Miranda dwelt, and the barking of