So two cold limbs, touch'd by Galvani's wire, Move with new life, and feel awaken'd fire; Quivering awhile, their flaccid forms remain, Then turn to cold torpidity again.

But ever frowns your Hymen? man and maid,

Are all repenting, suffering or betray'd? Forbid it, Love! we have our couples here Who hail the day in each revolving year: These are with us, as in the world around; They are not frequent, but they may be found.

Our farmers too, what though they fail to prove,

In Hymen's bonds, the tenderest slaves of love,

(Nor, like those pairs whom sentiment unites,

Feel they the fervoar of the mind's delights;)
Yet coarsely kind and comfortably gay,
They heap the board and hail the happy day:
And though the bride, now freed from school,
admits

Of pride implanted there some transient
fits;
Yet soon she casts her girlish flights aside,
And in substantial blessings rests her pride.
No more she moves in measured steps; no

more

Runs, with bewilder'd ear, her music o'er; No more recites her French the hinds among, But chides her maidens in her mother

tongue; Her tambour-frame she leaves and diet spare, Plain work and plenty with her house to share;

Till, all her varnish lost, in few short years,
In all her worth, the farmer's wife appears.
Yet not the ancient kind: nor she who gave
Her soul to gain-a mistress and a slave:
Who not to sleep allow'd the needful time;
To whom repose was loss, and sport a crime;
Who, in her meanest room (and all were
mean),
A noisy drudge, from morn till night was
seen;-

But she, the daughter, boasts a decent

room,

Adorn'd with carpet, form'd in Wilton's
loom;
Fair prints along the paper'd wall are spread;
There, Werther sees the sportive children fed,
And Charlotte, here, bewails her lover dead.
'Tis here, assembled, while in space apart
Their husbands, drinking, warm the opening
heart,

Our neighbouring dames, on festal days,
unite
With tongues more fluent and with hearts
as light;
Theirs is that art, which English wives alone
Profess-a boast and privilege their own;
An art it is, where each at once attends
To all, and claims attention from her friends,

grieved;

Where they who most enjoy shall much endure :)

Their rest, their labours, duties, sufferings, prayers,

Compose the soul, and fit it for its cares; Their graves before them and their griefs behind,

Have each a med'cine for the rustic mind; Nor has he care to whom his wealth shall go, Or who shall labour with his spade and hoe; But as he lends the strength that yet remains, And some dead neighbour on his bier sustains,

(One with whom oft he whirl'd the bounding flail,

Toss'd the broad coit, or took th' inspiring ale,)

For me (he meditates) shall soon be done This friendly duty, when my race be run; Twas first in trouble as in error past, Dark clouds and stormy cares whole years

o'ercast,

But calm my setting day, and sunshine smiles at last:

My vices punish'd and my follies spent,
Not loth to die, but yet to live content,
I rest:-then casting on the grave his eye,
His friend compels a tear, and his own
griefs a sigh.

To be that pillow which some surly swain May treat with scorn and agonize with pain? Art thou, sweet maid, a ploughman's wants to share,

To dread. his insult, to support his care; To hear his follies, his contempt to prove, And (oh! the torment!) to endure his love; Till want and deep regret those charms destroy,

That time would spare, if time were pass'd in joy?

With him, in varied pains, from morn till night,

Your hours shall pass; yourself a ruffian's right;

Your softest bed shall be the knotted wool; Your purest drink the waters of the pool; Your sweetest food will but your life sustain, And your best pleasure be a rest from pain; While, through each year, as health and strength abate,

You'll weep your woes and wonder at your fate;

And cry: Behold, as life's last cares come on, My burthens growing when my strength is gone!

Now turn with me, and all the young desire, That taste can form, that fancy can require; All that excites enjoyment, or procures Wealth, health, respect, delight, and love, are yours: Sparkling, in cups of gold, your wines shall flow,

Grace that fair hand, in that dear bosom glow; Fruits of each clime, and flowers, through all the year,

Shall on your walls and in your walks

appear;

Where all beholding shall your praise repeat, No fruit so tempting and no flower so sweet: The softest carpets in your rooms shall lie, Pictures of happiest loves shall meet your

eye,

And tallest mirrors, reaching to the floor,
Shall show you all the object I adore;
Who, by the hands of wealth and fashion
dress'd,
By slaves attended and by friends caress'd,
Shall move, a wonder, through the public

ways,

near,

Know, thou art all that my delighted eyes, My fondest thoughts, my proudest wishes prize;

she

Who trusts my honour is the wife for me; Your slave, your husband, and your friend employ,

In search of pleasure we may both enjoy.

To this the damsel, meekly firm, replied:
My mother loved, was married, toil'd, and
died;
With joys, she'd griefs, had troubles in her

course,

But not one grief was pointed by remorse;
My mind is fix'd, to Heaven I resign,
And be her love, her life,her comforts mine.
Tyrants have wept; and those with hearts
of steel,

Unused the anguish of the heart to heal, Have yet the transient power of virtue known,

And felt th' imparted joy promote their own. Our Knight relenting, now befriends a youth, Who to the yielding maid had vow'd his truth;

And finds in that fair deed a sacred joy, That will not perish, and that cannot cloy ;-— A living joy, that shall its spirit keep, When every beauty fades, and all the passions sleep.

PART III.

BURIAL S.

Qui vultus Acherontis atri,

Qui Stygia tristem, non tristis, videt,— Par ille Regi, par Superis erit.

THERE was, 'tis said, and I believe, a time,

When humble Christians died with views sublime;

When all were ready for their faith to bleed, But few to write or wrangle for their creed; When lively Faith upheld the sinking heart, And friends, assured to meet, prepared to part;

When Love felt hope, when Sorrow grew

serene,

And all was comfort in the death-bed-scene. Alas! when now the gloomy king they wait, 'Tis weakness yielding to resistless fate; Like wretched men upon the ocean cast, They labour hard and struggle to the last; Hope against hope, and wildly gaze around, In search of help that never shall be found: Nor, till the last strong billow stops the breath,

Will they believe them in the jaws of Death!

When these my records I reflecting read, And find what ills these numerous births succeed; What powerful griefs these nuptial ties attend,

With what regret these painful journeys end;

When from the cradle to the grave I look,
Mine I conceive a melancholy book.
Where now is perfect resignation seen?
Alas! it is not on the village-green:—
I've seldom known, though I have often
read

Of happy peasants on their dying-bed; Whose looks proclaim'd that sunshine of the breast,

That more than hope, that Heaven itself express'd.

What I behold are feverish fits of strife,
'Twixt fears of dying and desire of life:
Those earthly hopes, that to the last endure ;
Those fears, that hopes superior fail to cure;
At best a sad submission to the doom,
Which, turning from the danger, lets it

come.

Sick lies the man, bewilder'd, lost, afraid, His spirits vanquish'd and his strength decay'd;

No hope the friend, the nurse, the doctor lend

Call then a priest, and fit him for his end. A priest is call'd; 'tis now, alas! too late, Death enters with him at the cottage-gate; Or time allow'd-he goes, assured to find The self-commending, all-confiding mind; And sighs to hear, what we may justly call Death's common-place, the train of thought in all.

True, I'm a sinner,-feebly he begins--
But trust in Mercy to forgive my sins:
(Such cool confession no past crimes excite!
Such claim on Mercy seems the sinner's
right!)

I know, mankind are frail, that God is just,
And pardons those who in his mercy trust;
We're sorely tempted in a world like this,
All men have done, and I like all, amiss;
But now, if spared, it is my full intent
On all the past to ponder and repent:
Wrongs against me I pardon great and
small,

And if I die, I die in peace with all.—
His merits thus and not his sins confess'd,
He speaks his hopes, and leaves to Heaven
the rest.

Alas! are these the prospects, dull and cold,
That dying Christians to their priests unfold?
Or mends the prospect when th' Enthusiast
cries,

I die assured! and in a rapture dies?
Ah, where that humble, self-abasing mind,
With that confiding spirit, shall we find;
The mind that, feeling what repentance
brings,

Dejection's terrors and Contrition's stings,
Feels then the hope, that mounts all care
above,
And the pure joy that flows from pardoning
love?
Such have I seen in death, and much deplore.
So many dying-that I see no more:

Lo! now my records, where I grieve to trace,

How Death has triumph'd in so short a

space;

Who are the dead, how died they, I relate, And snatch some portion of their acts from fate.

The young how brave, how subtle were the old:

And oaths attested all that Folly told. On death like his what name shall we bestow, So very sudden! yet so very slow? 'Twas slow :-Disease, augmenting year by year, Show'd the grim king by gradual steps brought near:

Inn,

Big as his butt, and, for the self-same use,
To take in stores of strong fermenting juice.
On his huge chair beside the fire he sate,
In revel chief, and umpire in debate;
Each night his string of vulgar tales he told;
When ale was cheap and bachelors were bold:
His heroes all were famous in their days,
Cheats were his boast and drunkards had
his praise;

One, in three draughts, three mugs of ale
took down,
As mugs were then-the champion of the
Crown;

For thrice three days another lived on ale, And knew no change but that of mild and stale;

Two thirsty soakers watch'd a vessel's side, When he the tap, with dextrous hand,applied; Nor from their seats departed, till they found That butt was out and heard the mournful sound.

Next died the Widow Goe, an active dame, Famed ten miles round, and worthy all her fame;

She lost her husband when their loves were young,

But kept her farm, her credit, and her tougue:

Full thirty years she ruled, with matchless skill,

With guiding judgment and resistless will; Advice she scorn'd, rebellions she suppress'd, And sons and servants bow'd at her behest. Like that great man's, who to his Saviour came,

Were the strong words of this commanding dame ;

Come! if she said, they came; if: go! were gone;

gun;

Nor less the smuggler who the exciseman tied,

And left him hanging at the birch-wood side, There to expire;-but one who saw him hang Cut the good cord-a traitor of the gang. His own exploits with boastful glee he told, What ponds he emptied and what pikes he sold;

And how, when blest with sight alert and gay, The night's amusement kept him through

the day.

In darkness saw and could at distance hear;-
No parish-business in the place could stir,
Without direction or assent from her;
In turn she took each office as it fell,
Knew all their duties and discharged them
well;

The lazy vagrants in her presence shook,
And pregnant damsels fear'd her stern rebuke;
She look'd on want with judgment clear
and cool,

And felt with reason and bestow'd by rule; She match'd both sons and daughters to her mind,

call;

When justice wink'd on every jovial crew, And ten-pins tumbled in the parson's view. He told, when angry wives, provoked to rail,

Or drive a third-day drunkard from his ale, What were his triumphs, and how great the skill

That won the vex'd virago to his will; Who raving came;-then talk'd in milder strain,

Then wept, then drank, and pledged her spouse again.

Such were his themes: how knaves o'er

laws prevail, Or, when made captives, how they fly from jail;

was blind; Yet ceaseless still she throve, alert, alive, The working bee, in full or empty hive; Busy and careful, like that working bee, No time for love nor tender cares had she; But when our farmers made their amorous VOWS,

She talk'd of market-steeds and patentploughs.

Not unemploy'd her evenings pass'd away, Amusement closed, as business waked the day; When to her toilet's brief concern she ran, And conversation with her friends began, Who all were welcome, what they saw, to share;

And joyous neighbours praised her Christmas-fare,

complain

Of Gossip Goe as greedy in her gain. Thus long she reign'd, admired, if not approved;

Praised, if not honour'd; fear'd, if not beloved ;

When, as the busy days of Spring drew near, That call'd for all the forecast of the year; When lively hope the rising crops survey'd, And April promised what September paid; When stray'd her lambs where gorse and greenweed grow;

When rose her grass in richer vales below; When pleased she look'd on all the smiling land,

And view'd the hinds, who wrought at her command;

(Poultry in groups still follow'd where she went ;)

Then dread o'ercame her,— that her days were spent.

Bless me! I die, and not a warning giv'n,——
With much to do on Earth, and ALL for
Heav'n!-

No reparation for my soul's affairs,
No leave petition'd for the barn's repairs;
Accounts perplex'd, my interest yet unpaid,
My mind unsettled, and my will unmade;-
A lawyer haste, and in your way, a priest;
And let me die in one good work at least.-
She spake, and, trembling, dropp'd upon
her knees,

Heaven in her eye and in her hand her keys;
And still the more she found her life decay,
With greater force she grasp'd those signs
of sway:
Then fell and died!-In haste her sons drew
near,

And dropp'd, in haste, the tributary tear, Then from th' adhering clasp the keys unbound,

And consolation for their sorrows found.

Death has his infant-train; his bony arm Strikes from the baby-cheek the rosy charm; The brightest eye his glazing film makes dim,

And his cold touch sets fast the lithest limb:
He seized the sick'ning boy to Gerard lent,
When three days' life, in feeble cries, were
spent ;
In pain brought forth, those painful hours
to stay,

To breathe in pain and sigh its soul away!
But why thus lent, if thus recall'd again,
To cause and feel, to live and die in, pain?
Or rather say: Why grievous these appear,
If all it pays for Heaven's eternal year;
If these sad sobs and piteous sighs secure
Delights that live, when worlds no more

endure?

The sister-spirit long may lodge below, And pains from nature, pains from reason, know;

And widow-tears, in bitter anguish, shed; May at old-age arrive through numerous harms,

With children's children in those feeble arms: Nor till by years of want and grief oppress'd, Shall the sad spirit flee and be at rest! Yet happier therefore shall we deem the boy, Secured from anxious care and dangerous joy?

Not so! for then would Love Divine in vain Send all the burthens weary men sustain; All that now curb the passions when they rage,

The checks of youth and the regrets of age; All that now bid us hope, believe, endure, Our sorrow's comfort and our vice's cure; All that for Heaven's high joys the spirits train,

And charity, the crown of all, were vain. Say, will you call the breathless infant blest, Because no cares the silent grave molest? So would you deem the nursling from the wing

Untimely thrust and never train'd to sing; But far more blest the bird whose grateful

voice

Sings its own joy and makes the woods rejoice,

Though, while untaught, ere yet he charm'd the ear,

Hard were his trials and his pains severe!

Next died the Lady who yon Hall possess'd; And here they brought her noble bones to

rest. In Town she dwelt ;-forsaken stood the Hall: Worms ate the floors, the tap'stry fled the wall:

No fire the kitchen's cheerless grate display'd;

No cheerful light the long-closed sash convey'd;

The crawling worm, that turns a summerfly,

Here spun his shroud and laid him up to die The winter-death:-upon the bed of state, The bat shrill-shrieking woo'd his flickering mate;

To empty rooms the curious came no more, From empty cellars turn'd the angry poor, And surly beggars cursed the ever-bolted door.

To one small room the steward found his way,

Where tenants follow'd to complain and pay; Yet no complaint before the Lady came, The feeling servant spared the feeble dame ; Who saw her farms with his observing eyes, And answer'd all requests with his replies: