These things just served to stir the torpid sense, Memory, though slow, returned with strength; and thence Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, At houses, men, and common light, amazed. My heart is touched to think that men like these, For them, in nature's meads, the milky udder flowed. 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; To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark, The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match, Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill; 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 : And kindred of dead husband are at best 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, Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit. I lived upon the mercy of the fields, On hazard, or what general bounty yields, Foregone the home delight of constant truth, 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? That evermore his teeth they chatter, Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, And coats enough to smother nine. |