Yet lovelier, in my view, And livelier growth it gives ;-itself unseen! It flows through flowery meads, Gladdening the herds which on its margin browse ; Its quiet beauty feeds The alders that o'ershade it with their boughs, Gently it murmurs by And wand'ring thro' the depths of mental night, Sought dark predictions 'mid the worlds of light: When curious Alchymy, with puzzled brow, Whose wisdom shed its lustre on the age. The Village Church-yard;—its low, plaintive 'Twas a profound seclusion that he chose; tone, A dirge-like melody For worth, and beauty modest as its own. More gaily now it sweeps By the small School-house, in the sunshine, bright: And o'er the pebbles leaps, Like happy hearts by holiday made light. May not its course express, The noisy world disturb'd not that repose: The flow of murmuring waters, day by day, And whistling winds, that forced their tardy way Thro' reverend trees, of ages' growth, that made, Around the holy pile a deep monastic shade; The chanted psalm, or solitary prayer,— Such were the sounds that broke the silence there. * In characters which they who run may read, 'Twas here when his rites sacerdotal were "False colours on each object spread, See Sickness follows; Sorrow threats;— THE TWO WEAVERS. MRS. MORE. As at their work two weaver's sat, Beguiling time with friendly chat, They touched upon the price of meat; So high, a weaver scarce conld eat. "What with my brats, and sickly wife," Quoth Dick, "I'm almost tired of life; So hard we work, so poor we fare, 'Tis more than mortal man can bear. "How glorious is the rich man's state! His house so fine, his wealth so great! Heav'n is unjust, you must agree: Why all to him, and none to me? "In spite of what the Scripture teaches, "Where'er I look, howe'er I range, 'Tis all confused, and hard, and strange; The good are troubled and oppress'd, And all the wicked are the bless'd." Quoth John," Our ignorance is the cause, "See'st thou that carpet, not half done, Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun? Behold the wild confusion there! A stranger, ignorant of the trade, Quoth Dick," my work is yet in bits, Says John," thou say'st the thing I mean, Is but a carpet inside out. "As when we view these shreds and ends, "No plan, no pattern, can we trace; "But when we reach the world of light, "What now seem random strokes, will there "Thou'rt right," "quoth Dick, "no more I'll grumble, That this world is so strange a jumble; THE BRAMBLE. BISHOP. WHILE wits through fiction's regions ramble; While bards for fame or profit scramble ; |