These things just served to stir the torpid sense, Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. Memory, though slow, returned with strength; and thence Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, At houses, men, and common light, amazed. The lanes I sought, and as the sun retired, Came, where beneath the trees a faggot blazed; The wild brood saw me weep, my fate enquired, My heart is touched to think that men like these, In every vale for their delight was stowed: For them, in nature's meads, the milky udder nowed. F Semblance, with straw and panniered ass, they made Of potters wandering on from door to door: The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor In depth of forest glade, when jocund June Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon. But ill it suited me, in journey dark O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch; Or hang on tiptoe at the lifted latch ; The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match, The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still. What could I do, unaided and unblest ? Poor Father! gone was every friend of thine. Small help, and, after marriage such as mine, Ill was I then for toil or service fit: With tears whose course no effort could confine, I lived upon the mercy of the fields, The fields I for my bed have often used: And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth. Three years a wanderer, often have I view'd, She wept ;-because she had no more to say Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. GOODY BLAKE, AND HARRY GILL, A TRUE STORY. Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter? What is't that ails young Harry Gill? Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, And coats enough to smother nine, |