Showers of the night had swell'd the deep'ning

rill,

The morning breeze had urged the quick'ning

mill;

Assembled rooks had wing'd their seaward flight,
While proudly o'er them hung the steady kite,
Then turn'd him back, and left the noisy throng,
Nor deign'd to know them as he sail'd along.
Long yellow leaves, from osiers, strew'd around,
Choked the small stream, and hush'd the feeble

sound;

While the dead foliage dropt from loftier trees,
Our Squire beheld not with his wonted ease;
But to his own reflections made reply,

And said aloud, "Yes! doubtless we must die."

"We must," said Richard; "and we would not live "To feel what dotage and decay will give;

"But we yet taste whatever we behold.
"The morn is lovely, though the air is cold:
"There is delicious quiet in this scene,
"At once so rich, so varied, so serene;

"Sounds too delight us,—each discordant tone
"Thus mingled please, that fail to please alone;
"This hollow wind, this rustling of the brook,
"The farm-yard noise, the woodman at yon oak-
"That gun itself, that breaks upon the ear,
"Has something suited to the dying year.

"No doubt," said George, "the country has its charms.

"My farm behold! the model for all farms!

“Look at that land—you find not there a weed, "We grub the roots, and suffer none to seed. "To land like this no botanist will come, "To seek the precious ware he hides at home; Pressing the leaves and flowers with effort nice, "As if they came from herbs in Paradise;

"Let them their favourites with my neighbours see, They have no- -what?-no habitat with me."

66

They walk'd along, through mead and shaded wood,

And stubble ground, where late abundance stood,
And in the vale, where winter waters glide,
O'er pastures stretching up the mountain side.

"See! that unrivall'd flock! they, they alone "Have the vast body on the slender bone; "They are the village boast, the country's theme, "Fleece of such staple! flesh in such esteem!"

Richard gave praise, but not in rapturous style; He chose his words, and spoke them with a smile: Brother," said he, "and if I take you right,

66

"I am full glad—these things are your delight; "I see you proud, but,"-speaking half aside"Is, now, the pleasure equal to the pride?" A transient flush on George's face appear'd, Cloudy he look'd, and then his looks were clear'd.

"So says my bailiff: sometimes I have tried "To catch the joy, but nature has denied ;

"It will not be the mind has had a store
"Laid up for life, and will admit no more:
"Worn out in trials, and about to die,
"In vain to these we for amusement fly;
"We farm, we garden, we our poor employ,
"And much command, though little we enjoy ;
"Or, if ambitious, we employ our pen,

"We plant a desert, or we drain a fen;

"And—here, behold my medal!—this will show "What men may merit when they nothing know."

"Yet reason here," said Richard, "joins with pride."

"I did not ask th' alliance," George replied"I grant it true, such trifles may induce

"A dull, proud man to wake and be of use; "And there are purer pleasures, that a mind "Calm and uninjured may in villas find;

"But where th' affections have been deeply tried,
"With other food that mind must be supplied:
"'Tis not in trees or medals to impart

"The powerful medicine for an aching heart;
"The agitation dies, but there is still
"The backward spirit, the resisting will.
"Man takes his body to a country seat,

"But minds, dear Richard, have their own retreat;
"Oft when the feet are pacing o'er the green,
"The mind is gone where never grass was seen,
"And never thinks of hill, or vale, or plain,

"Till want of rest creates a sense of pain,

"That calls that wandering mind, and brings it home again.

"But now farewell! to thee will I resign

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Woods, walks, and valleys! take them till we dine."

The Brothers dined, and with that plenteous fare That seldom fails to dissipate our care,

At least the lighter kind; and oft prevails

When reason, duty, nay, when kindness fails.

RICHARD'S BOYHOOD*

LEFT by that father, who was known to few,

And to that mother, who has not her due
Of honest fame (said Richard), our retreat
Was a small cottage, for our station meet,

On Barford Downs: that mother, fond and poor,
There taught some truths, and bade me seek for

more,

Such as our village-school and books a few
Supplied; but such I cared not to pursue;
I sought the town, and to the ocean gave
My mind and thoughts, as restless as the wave:
Where crowds assembled, I was sure to run,

Heard what was said, and mused on what was done;
Attentive listening in the moving scene,

And often wondering what the men could mean.
When ships at sea made signals of their need,
I watch'd on shore the sailors, and their speed:
Mix'd in their act, nor rested till I knew
Why they were call'd, and what they were to do.

No ships were wreck'd upon that fatal beach, But I could give the luckless tale of each ;

* Richard, after dinner, at his brother's request, describes part of his life.