Unnumber'd violets on these banks appear,
And all the first-born beauties of the year.
The gray-green blossoms of the willows bring
The large wild bees upon the laboring wing.
Then comes the summer with augmented pride,
Whose pure small streams along the valleys
glide;

Her richer Flora their brief charms display;
And, as the fruit advances, fall away.

Then shall th' autumnal yellow clothe the leaf,
What time the reaper binds the burden'd sheaf;
Then silent groves denote the dying year,
The morning frost and noon-tide gossamer;
And all be silent in the scene around,
All, save the distant sea's uncertain sound,
Or here and there the gun, whose loud report
Proclaims to man that death is but his sport:
And then the wintry winds begin to blow,
Then fall the flaky stars of gathering snow,
When on the thorn the ripening sloe, yet blue,
Takes the bright varnish of the morning dew;
The aged moss grows brittle on the pale,
The dry boughs splinter in the windy gale,
And every changing season of the year
Stamps on the scene its English character.

Farewell! a prouder mansion I may see,

But much must meet in that which equals thee!
I leave the town, and take a well-known way
To that old mansion in the closing day,
When beams of golden light are shed around,
And sweet is every sight and every sound.
Pass but this hill, and I shall then behold
The seat so honor'd, so admired of old,
And yet admired-

Alas! I see a change,

Of odious kind, and lamentably strange.
Who had done this? The good old lady lies
Within her tomb: but, who could this advise?
What barbarous hand could all this mischief do,
And spoil a noble house to make it new?
Who had done this? Some genuine son of trade
Has all this dreadful devastation made;
Some man with line and rule, and evil eye,
Who could no beauty in a tree descry,
Save in a clump, when station'd by his hand,
And standing where his genius bade them stand;
Some true admirer of the time's reform,
Who strips an ancient dwelling like a storm;
Strips it of all its dignity and grace,
To put his own dear fancies in their place.
He hates concealment: all that was inclosed
By venerable wood is now exposed;
And a few stripling elms and oaks appear,
Fenced round by boards to keep them from the

deer.

I miss the grandeur of the rich old scene,
And see not what these clumps and patches

mean.

This shrubby belt that runs the land around Shuts freedom out: what being likes a bound? The shrubs, indeed, and ill-placed flowers, are gay,

And some would praise: I wish they were away, That in the wild-wood maze I as of old might stray.

The things themselves are pleasant to behold,
But not like those which we beheld of old,
That half-hid mansion, with its wide domain,
Unbound and unsubdued! but sighs are vain ;
It is the rage of Taste-the rule and compass

reign.

As thus my spleen upon the view I fed,
A man approach'd me, by his grandchild led-
A blind old man, and she a fair young maid,
Listening in love to what her grandsire said.
And thus, with gentle voice, he spoke :-

"Come, lead me, lassie, to the shade,
Where willows grow beside the brook:
For well I know the sound it made,
When, dashing o'er the stony rill,
It murmur'd to St. Osyth's Mill."
The lass replied: "The trees are fled;
They've cut the brook a straighter bed;
No shades the present lords allow;
The miller only murmurs now;
The waters now his mill forsake,
And form a pond they call a lake."
"Then, lassie, lead thy grandsire on,
And to the holy water bring;
A cup is fasten'd to the stone,

And I would taste the healing spring,
That soon its rocky cist forsakes,
And green its mossy passage makes."

"The holy spring is turn'd aside,

The rock is gone, the stream is dried;
The plow has level'd all around,
And here is now no holy ground."
"Then, lass, thy grandsire's footsteps guide
To Bulmer's Tree, the giant oak,
Whose bows the keeper's cottage hide,
And part the church-way lane o'erlook.
A boy, I climb'd the topmost bow,
And I would feel its shadow now.

"Or, lassie, lead me to the west,

Where grow the elm-trees thick and tall,
Where rooks unnumber'd build their nest:
Deliberate birds, and prudent all;
Their notes, indeed, are harsh and rude,
But they're a social multitude."
"The rooks are shot, the trees are fell'd,
And nest and nursery all expell'd:
With bitter fate, the giant tree,
Old Bulmer's oak, is gone to sea;
The church-way walk is now no more,
And men must other ways explore:
Though this, indeed, promotion gains,
For this the park's new wall contains;
And here, I fear, we shall not meet
A shade—although, perchance, a seat.”
"O then, my lassie, lead the way

To Comfort's Home, the ancient inn,
That something holds, if we can pay―
Old David is our living kin:
A servant once, he still preserves
His name, and in his office serves."
"Alas! that mine should be the fate
Old David's sorrows to relate;
But they were brief: not long before
He died, his office was no more:
The kennel stands upon the ground,
With something of the former sound."
"O then," the grieving man replied,

"No further, lassie, let me stray;
Here's nothing left of ancient pride,
Of what was grand, of what was gay,
But all is changed, is lost, is sold-
All, all that's left is chilling cold;
I seek for comfort here in vain

Then lead me to my cot again."-Crabbe.

EDME

DME CHAMPION went to Paris, as we said in our last. He was guided to the Hôtel de Lauzun, in the Tiguetonne. When he had taken leave of his conductor, he knocked loudly with a joyous heart at the gate. It was instantly opened, and he entered a large court; but not seeing any person to whom he could apply, he was walking forward to the steps of a handsome house that stood before him, when he heard a sharp voice calling after him: "Well, little fellow, what do you want? Are you going to enter people's

houses without speaking to the porter ?"

Edme turned, and observed a woman sitting at the window of a little lodge, which had been concealed by the gate as it opened. She was very plainly attired, but Edme instantly recognized her.

"It is I!" said he, entering the lodge, and going up to her with great simplicity. "And who are you?' she replied, looking rather angry at his apparent audacity.

"Do you not know me? I remember you quite well; you are the lady I brought

over the water in the boat, and that I thought was a princess. Where is the little boy? I have brought him his clothes;" and as Edme spoke he opened a little bundle, and displayed to the astonished portress the hat and dress of her little protégé. The woman's countenance instantly changed. "What is it you, my dear boy?" she exclaimed, pressing him in her arms; "is it you? I am truly glad to see you; and if you will stay with me I will take care of you until the duke returns. He has been suddenly recalled to join the army; and his mother, who had come here to meet him and to see her grandson, had gone back to her château in Vendée, and taken the child with her. But never mind, you shall be my boy for the present, and shall want for nothing. My lodge-boy is leaving me, and you shall have his place. You will not have much to do,-only to pull the string of the gate, to sweep the steps in front of the house, and to go of errands; and, never fear, you shall want for nothing."

At every word the woman spoke, the countenance of poor Edme became more overcast. Here then was the fulfillment of all his bright visions of wealth and honor. The portress left him to go and call in some of her neighbors, to whom she had related her adventures at Châtel-Censoir. During her absence the little traveler learned from the little lodge-boy whom he was to replace, that the Duchess de Lauzun was dead, that the duke was not expected back to Paris for a long time, and that the hôtel was about to be let to strangers.

Notwithstanding the disappointment of poor Edme, he endeavored to fulfill the duties of his new station with alacrity; the portress was very kind to him, and his evenings were generally spent in reading aloud to her and some of her friends.

It happened one day that a lady in his neighborhood discovered him in melancholy mood. She interrogated him as to the cause of his distress. Edme at once related his whole history, the adventure in the boat, his journey to Paris, his hopes, and his disappointment.

The lady said, "Would you like to be bound to a jeweler?"

"I should like it very much," replied the boy.

The lady then gave him her address, and desired him to come to her the next morning.

Edme was punctual to his appointment; and the kind lady who took such an interest in him accompanied him to the house of a celebrated working jeweler, to whom she presented her protégé, requesting to know his terms for taking an apprentice. The jeweler said his terms were five hundred livres for three years.

The lady signed the agreement with the name of De Tessier, and paid the money; this was all that Edme ever saw or heard of his benefactress.

The trials of our poor little hero were, however, by no means at an end. Unhappily the first years of the apprenticeship of children are too often employed in going the messages of the shop; and Edme's master-seeing that he had neither father nor friend to look after him-instead of instructing him in the business which he had pledged himself to teach, allowed him only the occupation of a servant. The poor boy did not know what to do; he had no acquaintance in Paris except the portress; and she advised him to remain where he was until she could communicate with the duke, who she was sure would not allow him to be ill-treated. Edme endeavored to follow her advice; but one day being threatened with a severe punishishment if he failed to attend well at table when a large company was expected, his indignation got the better of his prudence; he was of a strong and independent mind, and feeling the injustice of his master's treatment, and the total neglect of his part of the contract between them, he took the opportunity, when his master was engaged with his company, to escape out of the house. He knew not whither to go; but to get beyond the reach of his unjust and cruel master was all he cared for, and so he fled he knew not whither.

Edme left the city, and ran some dis

quired the lady.

"To get a trade, madam."
"What trade would you like?"

"I have no choice, madam; any one by which I could earn enough to bring my brother to me."

by fatigue and the dread of pursuit, he threw himself on the ground under some trees to rest. He had not eaten anything since early in the morning, and now hunger was added to his other sufferings. There was no dwelling near him, and no

"Poor little fellow!" said he; "you are suffering from cold and hunger."

The boy opened his eyes and looked at him, but was unable to rise. Edme recollected that there was a restaurateur just at the other side of the bridge; and lifting the boy in his arms, he carried him into the shop, and desired some drink to be warmed for him.

When the little boy had swallowed the drink he became much revived: and no longer feeling the exhaustion from which he had suffered, he refused to eat the food which was afterward given to him, but turned from it and burst into tears.

Delicate minds have an instinctive insight into the feelings of others, and Edme rightly conjecturing those of the child, whispered to him, "You would rather carry this food home with you, would you not?"

The boy made no answer, but a gleam of satisfaction brightened up his pallid

countenance.

An

able to follow his trade again. She was in bad health, and having two young children, was unable to do anything for their support; she had sold one article after another to procure food, till she was reduced to her present state of destitution. toine did what he could for them, and went out every day in hopes of being able to pick up some odd jobs, such as going messages or holding a gentleman's horse; but these opportunities seldom occurred, and he as well as the rest suffered from want of sufficient food.

Edme promised to give them a little help every week, until her husband was able to return to his work; but the little boy exclaimed: " O, sir! let me earn it, else my mother will not like to take it."

"Very well," said Edme, "henceforth you are my servant, and I shall expect you to attend me daily."

He then told the lad where he lived, and took his leave.

Strange as these incidents will sound,

remarkable career of Edme Champion;

"Have you no father?" said Edme. "He is sick in the hospital," replied the poor little boy.

"Show me where your mother lives," said Edme; telling the shop-boy to follow them with a little basket of provisions, he accompanied the boy to his home. In a garret of an old dilapidated house, in one of those wretched streets of the capital where dirt and misery abound, lay a poor sickly-looking woman and two children, on a bed of straw on the floor,-the little ones looking as pale and emaciated as their mother. The first words uttered by the poor woman, on seeing her son enter, followed by a well-dressed young gentleman, and a boy carrying a basket of provisions, were: "O, Antoine, I fear you have been begging!"

"No, indeed, he has not," said Edme, taking the things from the basket, and placing them beside her; "but I saw that he was in need himself, and I asked him about you."

The woman told her story, and the cause of her distress. Her husband was a mason, who had some weeks since fallen from a scaffolding and broken his leg; he was then in the hospital, and she feared it would be a long time before he would be

scended the stairs of this miserable dwelling, he could scarcely help exclaiming aloud: "O! how happy are the rich, who can give when they please and what they please!”

The next morning M. de Poilly entered the workshop, followed by the boy.

"Edme," said he, "here is a boy who declares that you have engaged him as a servant."

"He says the truth, sir," replied Edme, blushing the deepest crimson.

"And when did you begin to require the assistance of a servant, my boy?" inquired his astonished master.

"It is not I that require his assistance, sir," said Edme, "but he that requires mine."

"That makes a difference certainly," replied M. de Poilly, in a tone of so much kindness that Edme, who had hitherto kept his eyes upon the ground, now ventured to look up in his master's face.

"And now tell me, Edme," he continued, "what wages have you promised him ?" "Why did you ask me that, sir?"

"That I may double them," replied his generous master.

Edme threw himself into his arms: "O, sir!" said he, "the mother and the two little brothers of that poor boy were like himself perishing with hunger in a garret."