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How often have I paused on every charm!

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm;

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill;
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age, and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blessed the coming day,

When toil remitting lent its turn to play;
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round.
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,

By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove―
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please.

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;

There as I passed, with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind:
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear,

And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns, he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place;
Unskillful he to fawn, or seek for power,

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize;

More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train;
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain.
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;

Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings leaned to virtue's side;
But, in his duty prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway;
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,

With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;

Even children followed with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile;
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,

But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm;
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way

With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,

There, in his noisy mansion skilled to rule,
The village master taught his little school;
A man severe he was, and stern to view;

I knew him well, and every truant knew.

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day's disasters in his morning's face;
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper circling round,
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned;
Yet he was kind; or, if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declared how much he knew:
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too;

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage;
And even the story ran that he could guage;
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,
For even, though vanquished, he could argue still;
While words of learned length, and thundering sound,
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame: the very spot

Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot.

Another sweet poem of Goldsmith's, the ballad of Edwin and Angelina, might claim particular attention; but we can only refer to it as a production unsurpassed in ease and simplicity, and touching pathos.

Lecture the Chirty-Ninth.

WILLIAM FALCONER-JOHN CUNNINGHAM-JOHN SCOTT-SAMUEL BISHOP-ROBERT LLOYD- CHARLES CHURCHILL -JOHN LANGHORNE- SIR WILLIAM JONESTHOMAS CHATTERTON-ALEXANDER ROSS-JOHN SKINNER JOHN LOWEROBERT CRAWFORD-SIR GILBERT ELLIOT-ROBERT FERGUSSON.

FALC

ALCONER, the poet to whom our attention is next to be directed, must be regarded as a very remarkable man. Born in obscurity, and reared without education, he yet, in comparatively early life, produced a poem which has won for itself a permanent place in English literature. The terrific circumstances attending a shipwreck had been, before the appearance of his work, often described by poets, both ient and modern, but never with any attempt at professional accuracy or minuteness of detail. It was reserved for a genuine sailor to disclose, in correct and harmonious verse, the 'secrets of the deep,' and to enlist the sympathies of the general reader in favor of the daily life and occupations of his brother seamen. The ocean, which is the scene of the poem, naturally excites sublime poetical aspirations; but its interest soon wanders from this source, and centres in the stately ship and her crew-the gallant resistance the men made to the fury of the storm-their calm and deliberate courage—the various resources of their skill and ingenuity-their consultations and resolutions as the ship labors in distress-and the brave, unselfish piety and generosity with which they met their fate, when at last

The crashing ribs divide

She loosens, parts, and spreads in ruin o'er the tide.

Such a subject Falconer justly considered as 'new to epic lore;' but it possessed strong attractions to the English public, whose national pride and honor are so closely identified with the sea, and so many of whom have 'some friend, some brother there.'

WILLIAM FALCONER was the son of a poor Edinburgh barber, and was born in that city, in 1730. He left his home in his childhood, and went to VOL. II.-2B

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