And as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls,
His iron-arm'd hoofs gleam in the morning ray.
But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
On other days the man of toil is doom'd
To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground
Both seat and board; screen'd from the winter's cold
And summer's heat by neighbouring hedge or tree;
But on this day, imbosom'd in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
Of giving thanks to God; not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With cover'd face, and upward, earnest
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor n.an's day.
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's sroke;
While, wandering slowly up the river side,
He meditates on Him, whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around its roots; and while he thus surveys,
With elevated joy, each rural charm,
He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
That Heaven may be one Sabbath without end.
THE pride of such a party, nature's pride,
Was lovely Anne, who innocently tried,
With hat of airy shape and ribands gay,
Love to inspire, and stand in Hymen's way:
But, ere her twentieth summer could expand,
Or youth was render'd happy with her hand,
Her mind's serenity, her peace was gone,
Her eye grew languid, and she wept alone:
Yet causeless seem'd her grief; for, quick restrain❜d,
Mirth follow'd loud, or indignation reign'd;
Whims wild and simple led her from her home,
The heath, the common, or the fields to roam:
Terror and joy alternate ruled her hours;
Now blithe she sung, and gather'd useless flowers;
Now pluck'd a tender twig from every bough,
To whip the hovering demons from her brow.
Ill-fated maid! thy guiding spark is fled,
And lasting wretchedness awaits thy bed-
Thy bed of straw! for mark where even now
O'er their lost child afflicted parents bow;
Their wo she knows not, but, perversely coy,
Inverted customs yield her sullen joy;
Her midnight meals in secrecy she takes,
Low muttering to the moon, that, rising, breaks
Through night's dark gloom: oh, how much more
forlorn
Her night, that knows of no returning morn!
Slow from the threshold, once her infant seat,
O'er the cold earth she crawls to her retreat;
Quitting the cot's warm walls, unhoused to lie,
Or share the swine's impure and narrow sty,
The damp night-air her shivering limbs assails;
In dreams she moans, and fancied wrongs bewails.
When morning wakes, none earlier roused than she,
When pendant drops fall glittering from the tree;
But naught her rayless melancholy cheers,
Or sooths her breast, or stops her streaming tears.
Her matted locks unornamented flow;
Clasping her knees, and waving to and fro,
Her head bow'd down, her faded cheek to hide-
A piteous mourner by the pathway side.
Some tufted molehill through the livelong day
She calls her throne; there weeps her life away!
And oft the gayly-passing stranger stays
His well-timed step, and takes a silent gaze,
Till sympathetic drops unbidden start,
And pangs, quick-springing, muster round his heart;
And soft he treads, with other gazers round,
And fain would catch her sorrow's plaintive sound:
One word alone is all that strikes the ear,
One short, pathetic, simple word, "Oh dear!"
A thousand times repeated to the wind,
That wafts the sigh, but leaves the pang behind!
For ever of the proffer'd parley shy,
She hears th' unwelcome foot advancing nigh;
Nor quite unconscious of her wretched plight,
Gives one sad look, and hurries out of sight.
Fair-promised sunbeams of terrestrial bliss-
Health's gallant hopes-and are ye sunk to this?
For in life's road, though thorns abundant grow,
There still are joys poor Anne can never know;
Joys which the gay companions of her prime
Sip, as they drift along the stream of time;
At eve to hear beside their tranquil home
The lifted latch, that speaks the lover come:
That love matured, next playful on the knee
To press the velvet lip of infancy;
To stay the tottering step, the features trace-
Inestimable sweets of social peace!
ON BEHOLDING BODIHAM CASTLE, ON THE BANK OF THE ROTHER, IN SUSSEX.
Oн thou, brave ruin of the passed time,
When glorious spirits shone in burning arms, And the brave trumpet, with its sweet alarms, Call'd honour! at the matin hour sublime, And the gray ev'ning; thou hast had thy prime, And thy full vigour, and the eating harms Of age have robb'd thee of thy warlike charms, And placed thee here, an image in my rhyme;
The owl now haunts thee, and oblivion's plant, The creeping ivy, has o'er-veil'd thy towers; And Rother, looking up with eye askant, Recalling to his mind thy brighter hours, Laments the time when, fair and elegant, Beauty first laugh'd from out thy joyous bowers!
TO HIS SON, SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A SICKNESS.
SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,
My little patient boy;
And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.
I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.
Thy sidelong pillow'd meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Öf fancied faults afraid;
The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,
These, these are things that may demand
Dread memories for years.
Sorrows I've had, severe ones,
I will not think of now;
And calmly, mid my dear ones,
Have wasted with dry brow;
But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness,
The tears are in their bed.
Ah, first-born of thy mother,
When life and hope were new,
Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father too;
My light where'er I go,
My bird when prison-bound,
My hand-in-hand companion-no,
My prayers shall hold thee round.
To say, "He has departed,"
"His voice-his face-is gone;"
To feel impatient-hearted,
Yet feel we must bear on;
Ah! I could not endure
To whisper of such wo,
Unless I felt this sleep ensure
That it will not be so.
Yes, still he's fix'd and sleeping!
This silence, too, the while-
Its very hush and creeping
Seem whispering us a smile:
Something divine and dim
Seems going by one's ear,
Like parting wings of Cherubim,
CHARLES DIBDIN. 1745-1814.
HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew;
No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
For death has broach'd him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty,
And now he's gone aloft.
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