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·THI.
COTTAGER'S
SABBATH.

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·THE
COTTAGER’S SABBATH,
A Poem
BY SAMUEL MULLEN
WITH SEVENTEEN STEEL. VIGNETTES,
NGRAVID BY W
R
SMITH, FROM DESIGNS BY H. WARREN
LONDON:
TIIOMAS MILLER, 9, NEWGATE STREET
MDCCCXLI.

·London: I'rintod by STEWART and MOKRAY, Old Hailey.

·PREFACE. My principal object in the following pages has been to delineate the simple manners of cottagc-life, as it is still to be found in soine of the rural districts of England, where the happiest portion of my own days has been spcnt. The language cmployed is purposely simple, being more fitted to the ideas than words of loftier sound; while the incidents and characters introduced, are copied with the closest fidelity from real life. If there be one thing more than another connected with this subject, on which I feel proud, it is the happiness of living in a country where so many men are found who embody in

·PREFACE.
their lives the soundest practical morality with the most
exalted yet unpretending piety. To those who recognise
the inseparable connexion between virtue and peace, I
leave the fate of THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
London, Nov. 15, 1841.

·CANTO I.

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·PUBIIC
LIBRARY
183)
BESIDE a lauc, divcrying from a wood,
Where tall trcc-tops o‘er-roofd the grassy way,
A white-washed Cot in calm scclusion stood,
And, sloping down to face the southern ray,
Before the door a well-stocked garden lay;
Clean-wecded beds by winding walks outspread,
Wherc household roots were ripening day by day,
And blossomed beans delicious perfume shed,
While fruit-trces bending low, arched closely overhcad.

·2
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
II.
All round the place a look of comfort beamed,
True English comfort, honely, calm and sweet!
The very trees amid their stillness seemed
With quict joy their leafy friends to meet,
And on the roses siniled beside their feet:
The shaded lane—the soft and balmy air
The breath of flowers new-waked the morn to grcet,
All seemeu so purc, so innocent, and fair,
That in such scenes as these, man never need despair.
II.
Along the walls sweet-scented creepers hung,
Nailed here and there, their fragile stems to stay ;
And after rain the gentle breezes flung
Such floating fragrance far across the way,
As lured the bees from distant fields to stray ;
A rustic porch with straggling woodbine dressed,
And blooming roses, made the cottage gay;
While near at hand, the plum-tree's welcome guest,
Three Summers undisturbed, a thrush had built her nest.
.

·THE COTTAGEN'S SABBATII.
IV.
In two small plots with border-box hemmed round,
Rare hcaling plants and choicest pot-herbs grew;
Tlie garden-balm, 'rnid village dames renowned,
And fragrant thymnc, its rich aroma threw
O'er mint, and white-leaved sage, and bitter ruc.
Not far from these, the straw-thatched beehives stood,
Where in and out, all day incessant flew
The labouring bees, so bent on public good,
That idlers none disgraced that busy neighbourhood.
V.
A small round pond with flag-stones roughly lined,
Was scooped with care bencath the sloping hill,
From whence a rippling brook was taught to wind,
O'er jutting stones, in many a mimic rill,
With plashing sound the little pond to fill :
A grassy margin hemmed the water round,
No outlet seen the wasting waves to spill,
For by a sluice beneath a rustic mound,
The water glided through a passage under ground.

·4
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
VI.
One quiet spot - a sweet sccluded nook,
Displayed a seat of strong, rough-rinded oak,
Where, at his case, with some instructive book,
The Cotter oft his evening-pipe would sınokc,
And meditate on Hcaven, or God invoke.
There clustering nuts and long thin filberts hung.
Beneath the leaves which served their youth to cloak:
While on
tead ine broad-leaved branches swung,
To which in knotted heaps the juicy walnuts clung.
VII.
In useless spots, or round about the fence,
Wild roses grew, or scented eglantine;
But every part which labour could compense,
Was made productive in a different line,
And oft might help the family to dinc.
Hlere currants mixed with gooseberries did grow,
Or scarlet runners might be scen to twine
Their long thin tendrils tapering from below,
Round rods which rose aloft, in many a goodly row.

·TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
5
VIII.
Behind the cot a wooden shed was real
cared,
Wherc, safely housed, two hornless cows reposed ;
And near the
pump
a low warm sty appeared,
In which the well-fed pig supinely dosed
Thro' half the day, his drowsy eyelids closed.
With nicest skill the cottage-roof was thatched,
Its homcly walls of quarry-stone composed;
Tic simple door with string and bobbin matched
Inside the roomny porch, showed it was wooden-latched.
IX.
Two little ficlls of' twice five acres lay
Beyond •he pales which formed the garden fence;
In one was scen a stack of new-made hay,
Unthatched as yet, until the layers dense
IIad settled free from inward heats intense.
Tall thriving wheat the other field displayed,
And young potatoes, grown at small expense,
With rows of fruit-trces in long lines arrayed,
From which, in former ycars, his rent the Cotter paid.
B

·6
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
But now the fields and cottage were his own,
With all the trees that in the hedge-rows grew;
And in his humble history might be shown
The safest course a good man can pursue,
To raise his state, and still be just and truc:
For he was one whose calm reflective mind
Ambitious though's and feelings could subdue ;
In each event, to Providence resigned,
His ever cheerful heart some cause for praise could find.
X1.
Time was when he in thriftless trifles spent
Each hard day's earnings as the day rolled o'er,
Without regarding how his money went,
Quite sure, when all was gone, of carning more,
As he had done so many times before:
A fit of sickness taught him to reflect,
And made him feel the curse of being poor,
For those he'd helped now blamed him for neglect,
And wondered one like him should aid from them expect.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
7
XII,
To health restored, he fixedly resolved
To take his course, whatever might impede;
For while he lay, his labouring thoughts revolved
The various plans, by which he might succeed,
In future straits to save himself from need:
And thus at last his judgment did decide,
On no account his income to exceed,
But ere his wants or wishes were supplied,
À tenth of all he gained should first be laid aside.
XIII.
This simple rulc he always kept in mind,
Altho' his means in narrow compass lay,
Yet by degrees he soon began to find,
That trifling sums, increasing day by day,
Would " tell up” fast if none were ta’en away.
The first five years twice twenty pounds he saved -
All clearly gained-no backward debts to pay;
His future means, on this foundation paved,
More ample soon became, and yielded all he craved.

·8
TIE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
XIV.
But not alone this steady path through life
Had he pursued, nor single-handed throvc;
The cordial labours of his frugal wife
Sustained his mind and cestified her love;
In heart united both together strove :
While he toiled hard to till their “bit of land,"
She
spun
the yarn which into shirts they wove;
His simple nicals by her contrivance planned,
Were always nicely donc, and ready to his hand.
XV.
And thus for more than one-and-twenty years,
Without a jar they journeyed on through life:
If e'er he drooped, she soothed away his fears;
If she repined, he calmed her mental strife,
For both were wise the husband and the wife.
Four healthy boys and two fine girls they had,
Five still at home, but one with promise rife
Had gone abroad; a dark-eyed fearless lad,
More thoughtless than they wished, but still they hoped
not bad.

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·One Sabbath morn-(while yet the earth was spread
With lingering mists-the gray sky tinged with gold,
Dull vapours coiling round each green hill's hcad,
And indistinct the deep broad river rolled
Its dusky length along the marshes cold;
While
yet the worm still revelled in the dew,
The fleecy flock yet slecping in the fold,
Ere twice the cock his early matins crew)-
Two younger boys he took, the rising sun to view.

·10 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. XVII. For they had heard a village playmate say, How once a-year the sun danced in the sky; That when he rose betimes the longest day, In curious lines and rapid whirls he'd fly, And gambol up and down before the eye. 'Tis strange how wide such notions still prevail In rural gleus, where scattered haulets lie, Each nursing up some legendary talc, By old tradition spread through many an English dalo. XVIII. sce When first his boys brought home this legend gray, He only smiled, and said, “We'll rise and ? Because he judged that in such errors lay Some lofty truth hard struggling to get free, Or moral deep, with reason to agree: And at the least this lesson he could teach- That facts, not words, their only guides should be; Lest, when their lives more dangerous years should reacb, They might neglect the truth for man's deceitful speech.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
11
XIX.
To test this tale, they now approached a hill,
From whose high summit they could best behold
The glorious sun rise up serene and still,
Or elsc perform, as they were lately told,
llis curious dance. in
merry
circles rolled.
Not much they talked while journeying on their way,
But watched to see the gates of light unfold,
Where amber clouds like half-drawn curtains lay,
Festooned in ample folds around the couch of day.
XX.
O'cr bright green fields, now thickly pearled with dew,
From whence the mists in straggling columns broke,
Like flying troops, unfolding to the view
The distant woods, where many a sturdy oak
Still stood crect, unfeared the woodman's stroke;
Across a meadow, where the full-grown grass
In ridgy swathes a plenteous crop bespoke ;
Then o'er a brook with rustic bridge they pass,
And reach an inland lake, with surface smooth as glass.

·12
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
XXI.
Thin vapoury flakes were steaming from the lake,
Presaging sultry heat the coming day;
Uniieeding this, along its banks they take
In lengthy sweeps their undulating way,
Until they reached the lofty hill, which lay
In rugged slopes based firmly far and wide,
And coated o cr with moss and lichens gray;
Whil here and there were jutting from its sirlc,
Huge fragments of hard rock that would till doomsday bide.
XXII.
A zigzag path worn barc by hardy sheep,
With frequent bonds wound gently up the hill;
Along this path and in a line they keep,
The youngest first, to please his anxious will;
Who, proud and glad this honoured post to fill,
With looks elate before them sped apace ;
But soon, his brcath exhausted, he stood still
With beaving chest, yet to avoid disgrace,
He stooped to pluck some flowers and then resumed his racc.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
13
XXIII.
And thus they gained the summit, ere the sun
Above the horizon showed his glorious face;
Though lines of light like streams of glory run
In shected splendour brightening near the place
Where he would fist commence his upward race.
A solemn silence stilled the carth and sky,
As if great Nature's hcart had paused to trace
That wondrous scene unfolded to the eye,
Where, stamped in living lines, bright proofs of Godhcad lie.
XXIV.
Majestic, slow, the red round sun uprose,
Unlike aught earthly!—simple l-grand !-divine !
llis Maker's image fashioned to disclose,
To spread through Time truth's everlasting line;
Of God unseen, the bright transparent sign!
Then Nature breathed more freely than before,
The dewy earth threw incense on his shrine,
The solemn trece a look of gladness wore,
And songs of laughing flowers cach passing zephyr bor

·14
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
XXV.
With hands upraised to overshade their eyes,
The boys both gazed intently on the sun;
Serenely calm they then beheld him rise,
And anxious watcheu to scc the dance begun,
Until their eyes were forced his rays to shun.
Ilalf blind, they felt imprinted on thcir view
Fictitious orhs, that still before thein spun
In spid whirls, and quickly changing huc,
Now crimsoned o'er like blood, now yellow, green, or blue.
XXVI.
Some minutes passed ere they again could bear,
'Io turn their cyes to view that brilliant light,
Nor could they then, without reluctance, tear
Away the pleasing hope that yet he might
Some tricks perform before their eager sight:
But when with stolen oft-repeated glance,
They found him mounting high the azure height,
And still
pursue his steady calm advance,
They both at once exclaimed, “The sun does never dance!"

·TIIE COTTAGEH'S SABBATH.
15
XXVII.
“The sun does dance, my boys," the Cotter said,
Though not as you had vainly hoped to see:
Ilis steady course through endless circles led,
Is fixed for ages by that firm decrec
Which made the ro'ling plancts first agree.
Were he to move, cccentric, round and round,
This reeling carth, from his attraction frec,
Would rush coufuscd beyond its present bound;
And, dashing wild through space, the neighbouring stars
confound.
XXVIII.
“Yon glowing orb is one of many more
As large and bright as that we now behold;
By night, like stars, we see them sprinkled o'er
The vast blue sky—that book of lettered gold,
Of wisdom full, which time may yet unfold.
Those stars are suns, each rolling in his course
In order ranged, by that same hand controlled,
Which made them all, himself of light the source,
Concerning whom the stars the livelong night discourse.

·16 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. XXIX. “ But while we live on this small earth below, We cannot see the sun's extended round; Till heaven is gained, 'tis not for man to know The splendid sights with which the heavens abound, Wherc suns and stars are all with glory crowned. But when we stand on bcaven's high hills divine, And fling our visior through the vast profound- Our picrcng sight shall rcach the endless line, Where, like these dewdrops thick, the countless planets shme” XXX. “Oh! had I wings,” exclaimed the elder boy ; “ To catch the glorious sun I'd quickly fly, My panting heart would be so full of joy, To mount aloft, and live in that blue sky, Far, far above yon lark, that soars so high." “You may live therc, my son," tbe father cried, “And will, if you are good, and truly try To copy Him who once on Calvary died To raise you to that sky, and throne you by his side.”

·TIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
17
XXXI.
The boys both gazed with pleasure in their eyes,
Whilc thus their father to their cars addressed
Those holy truths he wished them most to prize,
Which swayed for aye
his own contented breast,
His guide through life, in death his only rcst.
But evermore their youthful spirits wild
Broke out in strange remarks or joyful cries ;
A birda flower—a wall with stones ill-piled,
I'rovokcd their ready mirth : the good man turned and
smiled.
XXXII.
To curb the mind with needless rules, he thought
Might chafe their spirits till they ceased to feel
Those pure emotions gushing forth unsought,
Like hidden springs which rocks would fain conceal,
Till bursting strcams their secret strength reveal.
To guide their feelings safely as they rose,
And sway the heart by virtue's first appeal,-
More lasting good he trusted would disclose,
Than if on rigid laws he taught them to repose.
C

·18 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. XXXIII. But now 'twas time to think of going back, For here and there the smoke from chimneys rose; The sun was rising on his brilliant track, And bees were busy where the wild thyme grows. In far-off fields the congregated crows Discussed affairs with signs of warm debate, Or heaved loose c.assy sods which might disclose The sleeping worm, awaked to sudden fate, And writhing to escape ; but, ah! alas ! too late. XXXIV. So down the hill, and by the lake they went, A different way to that by which they camc; In pleasant chat the happy hour was spent, On various subjects needless here to name, Except to note the Cotter's constant aim To lead their opening minds in search of truth; For well he knew their after-life would claim Its tone and hue, from what they learned in youth- As saplings rise erect, or grow in forms uncouth.

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·Thus when they passed a proud baronial hall,
With spreading wings and towers that pierced the sky,
For miles surrounded by a lofty wall,
Its owner's lordly pomp to gratify,
And hide its beauty from the curious eye:
The boys both wished a house like that their own,
A park as large, a great stone wall as high,
Where they might live in grandeur all alone,
Then would they never mind the king upon
king upon his throne.

·20 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. XXXVI. “ Nor need you mind the king upon his throne,” The father said, “nor yet desirc to gain Such grcat esiates as this man calls his own, Which often yield less happiness than pain, And make men sigh for absent peace in vain. When we reflect how hard 'twill be to part With these grand plls, and wealth's imposing train, We may inclusie 'tis far the wiscr art To seek wliat all may fiud,-a calm contented heart. XXXVII. “ Once on a time there lived a mighty king, Who wished to bow the wide world to his sway, So forth hic sprang-an cagle on the wing- To war on kings and make their thrones his prcy, Destroying nations in his bloody way. When all were conquered, -all, on every side, And no man lived who dared his word gainsay, The grasping wretch was still dissatisfied, And wanting something morc, he like a baby cricd."

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
21
XXXVIII.
.
Whercat the boys, half wondering, wished to know
Why he should weep when thus possessed of all -
When at his bidding men must come and go,
And all the world before his feet must fall,
With boundless wealth and pleasure at his call ?
“Because,” their father said, “ he hoped to finil
The honey grow, where God has placed the gall :
A foolish man, whose dark and crring mind
Would fill his hungry maw by feeding on the wind.
XXXIX.
“ Not in the glare and glitter of great wcalth,
Nor that which wealth produces, pomp and state,
Nor yet in power conferred or got by stealth,
Nor yet in fame or rank, however great,
Hath God confined the bliss of man's estate;
All these possessed, can never give repose,
Or charm the stinging conscience to abate
The drcadful stripes she evermore bestows
Upon the guilty soul with still increasing wocs.

·22
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
XL.
“ All true enjoyment lies in man's own mind,
Depending not on pomp or outward things;
A lowly heart by heavenly grace refined,
Unccasing joy to its possessor brings,
And o'er his life unclouded sunlight flings;
Unruly passions banished from the breast,
With patient faitu he bears the ill which clings
To hum.s life, iselicving God knows best,
Submissive to his will, and with his fcar imprest.
XLI.
“On yonder cliff sec that gigantic oak,
All toru and rifted, battling with the wind ;
Its huge long arms are peeled and crashed and brokc,
While ghastly rents deform its blighted rind,
And fibres rot where once the ivy twined :
"Twere better far that stately tree had grown
In some low vale surrounded by its kind,
Than placed aloft in gurly state alonc,
Where, blasted by the storm, its pride lies overthrown.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
23
XLII.
“All things, save man, contented with their lot,
Fulfil the task appointed them to do:
Sce how the bees toil on, complaining not, --
The carcful ants the sultry summer through,
Prepare their wintıy food, with caution due :
The cheerful birds their merry voices raise, -
The various bcasts their various ends pursue;
Bird, beast, fish, insect, in ten thousand
ways
Rejoice to do his will, and thus their Maker praisc.
XLIII.
“ But foolish man, with lofty reason blest,
Forgets its use in pining discontent,
To-morrow's ills his present joys infest;
In idlc wish each useful hour is spent,
Or labours vain, abundance to augment:
True wisdom shows a far superior plan,
That we should make the best of what is sent,
Do, while we live, whatever good we can,
And bear with cheerful thoughts the common lot of man."

·24
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
XLIV.
'Twas thus the Cotter chatted with his boys,
As on their homeward way they gently strolled,
Oft loitering slow to hear the pleasant noise
Made by a little brook, that onward rolled,
O’er pebbly beds and sand that shone like gold :
Sometimes they stonped to catch the distant trill
Of larks unsern, whose
mcrry
music told
With what delight their little hearts must thrill,
Since thus their joyous songs the vaulted sky could fill.
XLV.
And as they passed along their pleasant way,
By bill or dale, or long, green, swceping lane,
Full many a cot and scattered farm-house lay,
Securely resting on the smiling plain,
By fields surrounded full of various grain :
From each lone house a thin blue smoke was seen
To rise quite straight--a certain sign the rain
That day would not bcdim the sky serene,
Or with their evening walk, unwelcome intervene.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII. 25 XLVI. A gipsy-camp beside a wood they passed, Whereby a heap of smouldering ashes lay, On which large logs of half-dried wood were cast, To keep the fire from burning all away, While they reposed till later in the day. The tents all closed, no signs of life revealed, Save growling dogs which warned them not to stay; Beneath a hedge their panniers lay conccaled, And three strong asses fed within a neighbouring field. XLVII. The farmer's horses, for the day set frec, With heavy gambols frisked about the grass The farmer's boys laughed loud their freaks to sec, Or cracked rough jokes with neighbouring servant lass, Or peeled long sticks their idle hours to pass. In new-washed frock cach shonc, and showy vest, A kerchief flaming as his sun-burned face- Large gaudy flowers stuck high upon his brcast, Straw hat and tight-laced boots that half his leg comprest.

·26
TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
XLVIII.
A rustic youth, with leave to spend the day
Among his friends, they met upon the road,
Just where his sweetheart waited in his way
With blushing cheeks, and modest cycs
which glowed
In bashful joy, as he thc kiss bestowed.
Her russct gown was plain and neatly made,
A single bow her cottage bonnet showed;
A kerchief blue across her shoulders laid,
Half opened in the front, her snowy neck displayed.
XLIX.
With looks of love and simple joy they went,
Her arm in his, exulting side by side ;
A happy picture of that calm content,
Which causes life in quietness to glide,
When lowly thoughts extinguish foolish pride.
My blessing on them! Happy may they be!
(Lct not the great their humble state deride);
With love unbroken may they live to see
Their children's children rise, and climb the old man's
knee.

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·NANA And through the ficlds they saw the milkmaid trip, Her rustic songs unsung this holy day, Her gown tucked up-the pail placed on her hip, With airy stops she trod her dewy way, Just stopping as they passed “good morn" to say. Her rosy cheeks, her laughter-loving eyes, Full pouting lips, and firm round limbs display- What chcerful health the early morn supplies ! To those who labour love, and with the lark arise.

·28
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATHI.
LI.
Beside the road a ruined abbey stood,
Its roofless walls with ivy overgrown ;
The crumbling stones and richly carven wood,
Were here and there about the pathway strown,
In scattered heaps, whilc fragments lay alonc.
One lofty arch, yet perfect, served to show
How great the shik, by which were overthrown
This gooille stru.'turc, now in ruin low,
And Rome's imperial pridc, with one gigantic blow.
LII.
Their path led onwards by a little brook,
That swept with mimic fury down a dell,
Thence round a hill a further circuit took,
And met the stream, where, with a sudden swell,
Heaved o'er a rock with brawling noise it fell.
Then in a tiny lake the water lay,
Calm, clear, and cold, cooped in its rocky shell,
As if content upon its course to stay,
And rest in that cool place, throughout the Sabbath day.

·TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
29
LIII.
Beyond this lake, fixed on the sloping hill,
By lofty trees half hidden from the view,
They passed a rustic antiquated mill,
Where all the water of the stream came through
To turn a wheel, that turned with much ado.
But now the wheel was idle, for the strcam
Was taught a different passage to pursuc,
Till that day past, of all the days supreme, .
Wherein poor mortals may, their mis-spent time redeem.
LIV.
Descending decper through a rocky glen
With hoary nioss and ivy overgrown,
They passed a cave, called "Rip the Robber's den,"
Whercin, tradition said, he lived alone,
For many a year
his wild retreat unknown.
In long dark nights his daring deeds were done,
In secret planned—the act-the gain, his own ;
And while he thus, detection cared to shun,
An easy life he lived—believing, fcaring none.

·30 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII. LV. At length, the story said, he went and stolc A mass of money from a rich old man, And borc it off in safety to his hole- O’erjoyed that such success had crowncd his plan. But when to count the treasure he began, A sudden noise his guilty bre:ist alarmed; With eager hite to ge his gun But cre he turns with this destructive armed, A blow upon his wrist his fatal purpose charmed. he ran, LVI. That old man had a daughter, and she loved A youth, her father wished her not to love; By night, he oft bencath her window moved, To watch her shadow o'er the curtains move- To hcave long sighs and adverse fate reprove. That night he watched the robber stcaling by, And dogged his steps, half jealous, to the cove; The old man smiled and bade the youth draw nigh- And ere the thief was hung, the bridal songs rose high.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
31
LVII.
They left the glon, and by a grassy knoll
With quicker pace their homeward way ran o'er,
Now hungry grown by this long morning's stroll,
They took the path that lay straight on before,
For sight or sound resolved to stop no more;
O'er gate, or hedge, or roughly-shapen stilc,
Through half-formed gaps or brambles wild they tore,
Despite large boards with prohibitions vile, 2
They tripped the ncarest way, which saved them full a mile.
LVIII.
And so at last they reached that quiet lanc,
Whercin their own sweet cottage they could see,
And near the gate they saw their sisters twain,
And their young brother frisking like a bee,
Then bounding off to meet them, full of glee.
With eager joy the boys beheld him come,
And sprang to meet him, shouting “ IIere we be !"
While, with a heart that never wished to roam,
The Cottage-Father came rejoicing to his home.

·32
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
LIX.
The anxious wife was waiting near the door,
And round her husband's neck her arms she threw,
With fond regard she welcomed him once more;
While he more closely to his bosom drew
Ilis long-tricd friend, in cvcry
Not theirs the love that cooled with marriage tics,
The longer tried the firmer fixed it grew;
They still were dearest in cach other's eyes,
And deemed each other's smile by far the greatest prize.
trial true;
LX.
The girls too came both clinging round their sire,
To gain in turn the long-accustomed kiss;
For haply on the altar no strange fire
Had yet been lighted to destroy their bliss,
Or wake the sigh for other joy than this.
Wife, daughters, boys, all crowding round him, strove
Who first should gain (quite sure that none would miss)
That warm embrace which daily served to prove
How fully they enjoyed his deep unceasing love.

·Σ Α Ν ΤΟ ΙΙ.

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·And now the sun, in cloudless beauty bright,
llad warmed the earth, and half absorbed the dew,
Save where, with tapering shadows twice their height,
Large leafy trees a cool protection throw
O’or all the tender herbs that near them grew.
The Cotter, who was predisposed to find
New cause for praise in all which met his view,
Rejoicing, stayed a little while behind,
To breathe the grateful thoughts that swelled within his
mind.

·36
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
II.
And well he might, for, stretched before his door,
Earth's richest scene, an English valley, lay,
With rural beauties thickly dotted o'er,
Farm-house and cot, and hedge-rows white with May,
And pastoral slopes in summer bcanty gay;
A sparkling stream, rude bridge, and dusty mill,
Long winding road 'twixt mcadows full of hay,
An old church-spirc beyond the distant hill,
All bathed in brilliant light, reposed serenely still.
III.
And here and there odd figures might be scen,
Such as a Sabbath morning only shows,
Who, though they move, scarce break that deep serene,
The Sacred day o'er all the country throws,
When man and beast alike enjoy repose.
Herc rustic swains were leaning o'er a gate,
The village news to gather or disclosc,
While o'er the bridge a farmer rode sedate,
And in her Sunday gear his wife displayed her state.

·TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
37
IV.
Meantime the Cotter's family went in,
A joyful group without a single care ;
All
cager now their breakfasts to begin,
They eyed with joy the plain substantial fare,
Then jointly ran to place their father's chair.
The youngest boy, with small unsteady foct,
Mixed with the rest this joyful task to share;
Then toddling off to fetch him to his scat,
Cricd, “Father, pray come in, my brothers want to eat."
V.
All things inside bespoke the “day of rest,
Made clean and “tidied up” the night before :
Their Sunday clothes then taken from the chest;
Their home-spun shirts were aired and well looked v'er;
Shoes, hats, and coats were brushed, and washed the floor.
The old dark wheel and distaff put away;
Hoops, bows, and kites, hung up behind the door:
Each thing removed that told of work or play,
Due preparation showed to keep the Sabbath day.

·38
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
VI.
For they had learned that lie to whom they owed
Their lives, and all that made their being blest,
To checr mankind in mercy had bestowed
One day in seven, to be a day of rest
For weary man, with worldly toils opprest:
Wherefore to keep his law they ever strove,
And banished worldly feelings from the breast,
That thus they might the sacred Sabbath prove,
A day of holy rest, of peace, and joy, and love.
VII.
Across the room a straight-backed scttle stood,
One end up-running to the chimney nook ;
A snug warm place when winter chills the blood,
And always cozey with its antique look,
Its overhanging shelf and iron crook.
On this the polished pot-hooks shining bright,
Reflected back the pains their mistress took
To make their home a source of truc delight,
By keeping household things in merest trifles right.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATU.
39
VIII.
The warmest corner in that "chimney nook,”
The grandam held by long-acknowledged right;
Where, on a small old table, lay that Book
From whence she drew a strong interior light,
Which glowed mor. brightly with her fading sight:
There would she sit the long warm summer's day,
There would shc sit the long cold winter's night;
While evermore her Bible open lay,
In which at times she read, then knit her worsted grey.
IX.
Long had her husband lain within his
grave,
And silent there her sons and daughters lay;
All, all werc dcad, except the one who gave
Ilis slicltering roof, to shield her wintry day,
And loved her true, and wished her long to stay.
But oft the tear would gather in her eye,
As wakeful memory pictured those away;
Then would she smile, gaze dimly toward the sky,
And mutter to herself, “ I'm coming by-and-bye.”

·40
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATHI.
X.
Along the rafters, from the ceiling hung
Well-seasoned herbs in various bunches ticd;
Part kept because an odour rich they flung,
And more because a medicinc they supplied,
But most of all, for seed thus housed and dricd.
IIere cverlasting daisies bloomed with thyme,
There sage and rue hung closely side by side ;
While marjoram swect with wormwood rank did chimc,
Mint, horchound, featherfew, and more, unknown to rhyme.
XI.
In good strong ropes two poles suspended hung,
Above the door and near the rafters placed,
l'roin which in strings the homc-fed flitches swung,
With hams and chaps and chincs of bacon braced,
To keep from reist in coarso strong paper cascd;
There rows of onions in their bright brown coats,
In netted cords were close together laced ;
Aud in a nook where sunlight seldom floats,
A bin was snugly placed, well filled with incal and oats.

·TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
41
XII.
A thick old plate fixed fast in cbon frame,
Beside the window placed against the wall,
The honored post of looking-glass might clain,
Though slightly cracked and injured by a fall,
llad long before it left a baron's hall:
The salt-box clean, its round brass nails displayed,
Beside the homely dresser, long and tall,
Where pewter plates on narrow shelves were laid,
Without one speck of dirt their mistress to upbraid.
XIII.
Across the room outstretched the chimney wide,
Above a grate which stood upon the floor,
The shelf with brazcu candlesticks supplied;
While bright pan-lids hung ncar thc cupboard door,
A large old-fashioned thing with brass laid o'er.
There shone the pan 10 warm the chilly bed,
The grater rough with many a gaping porc,
A dredging box, the mealy flour to spread,
And toasting fork of steel to brown their home-made brcad.

·42
TIE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
XIV.
A few old chairs, all odd, but sound and strong,
As if at sundry tiincs pickcd up by chance,
Some quaintly carved, with backs upright and long,
And onc that bore the royal arms of France,
Without the crown, knocked off by some inischance.
Behind the door there stood a brass-faced clock,
From which in turn two giants did advance,
With knotted clubs against the bell to knock,
While Timc pursued his flight regardless of the shock.
XV.
A cat and two young kittens full of play,
With merry gambols romped about the floor;
An old Dutch mastiff in a corner lay,
And in a cage suspended near the door,
A speckled thrush his wild notes warbled o'er ;
A jackdaw lamed, the elder boy had found,
And nursed him well till he was lame no inore;
And when he called, the bird came hopping round,
And on his shoulder perched, or skipped about the ground.

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·44
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
XVII.
With cheerful looks they gathered round the board,
Good health and hunger pictured in cach face ;
But ere they ate, with reverence they adored,
A solemn silence filling all the place,
While, simply sweet, the youngest girl said grace ;
The children cach this office took in turn,
A weck about, that they might carly trace
IIow God is mingled in cach small concern
On which our lives depend, and so to love him learn.
XVIII.
Then, with the relish hunger always feels,
And right good will they took their homely farc,
More thankful far for these substantial mcals
Than many men for daintiest dishes are,
By wcalth procured, and cooked with greatest care ;
For soft luxurious habits had not spoiled
The appetites they gained from country air ;
And though at times fatigued and sadly moiled,
Yet greatly they enjoyed the food for which they toilcd.

·TIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII. 45 XIX. The breakfast o'er, the breakfast things removed, And thanks returned by her who "grace” had said, The pious father took the Book he loved, And in a clear strong voicc distinctly read That part of holy writ, where Abraham led Ilis Isaac bound, the child of his old age, On whom he gazed with mingled love and dread, Whilc journeying o'er that long dark pilgrimage, In which his faith in God had made him first engage: XX. And how he laid him bound along the wood, The big tears trembling as the victim smiled, Onc hand upraised to shed his young warm bloodllis Isaac's blood—the long, long-promised child- The nestling of his heart—the kind—the mild ! Oh! Faith, how strange is thy exalted power, By thoughtless fools rejected or reviled! The hungry knife shall not his life devour- He lives !-he lives to show thy most triumphant hour!

·46
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
XXI.
In strains devout they then together raised
Their morning hymn to Abraham's God and friend;
With artless words his Providence they praised,
Which did through dangers of the night defend,
And shewed that they might still on him depend.
For all the mercies which his hands supplied
(And all their mercies did from God descend)
They still would praise and trust him for their Guide,
While sun, and moon, and stars, his goodness testified.
XXII.
Then kneeling down, with unaffected words
The father's voice in prayer devout arose ;
With modest skill he touched those trembling chords
The human hcart in
every
station knows,
When light divine its hidden weakness shows.
Poor nature's failings and her sins he wailed,
And strength besought temptation to oppose,
Expressed a doubt, that where the strong had failed,
The poor weak lambs must fall, unless their God prevailed.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
47
XXIII.
But soon his prayer assumed a bolder tonc,
And notes of triumph mingled in the strain ;
He spoke of Christ,-his passion and his throne,-
His melting heart,-his touch of human pain,
llis power supreme, and everlasting reign!
And then his faith appeared to grasp the Cross,
And every moment firmer hold to gain,
Till worldly things were valueless as dross,
And life grew out of death, and gain arose from loss.
XXIV.
C6
" Aye! let the winds howl fiercely round their bark,
The surges risc, thc thundering tempest roll,
The sky weep blood, the sun and stars grow dark,
The earth in flames, convulsed from pole to pole ;-
Yet what could harm tho trusting Christian's soul?
Was not the arm omnipotent their shield ?
Could not that arm both man and fiend control ?
And had not He, to whom all creatures yield,
His boundless love to man in Jesus Christ revealed ?”

·48
TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
XXV.
With thoughts and feelings far too high for words,
llis heart-felt
prayer in praises died away;
Delicious toncs still trembling through the chords,
While broken visions in the distancc lay,
In sunlight steeped, or glory's dim display.
The secret chambers of his heart were filled
With that pure light, whose everlasting ray
Descends from God, man's humble faith to gild,
And brighten o'er his hopes with ripening raptures thrill'd.
XXVI.
And now the time for Sunday school draws nigh,
Where both the boys and both the girls must go
To gain the truths, these useful mcans supply,
Through which in goodness they may learn to grow,
And live respected, though their lot be low;
Their father, now the leading teacher there,
Before the door is walking to and fro,
Whereby they know they have no time to spare,
And so for school at once both girls and boys preparc.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATI).
49
XXVII.
The boys, soon ready, reached their caps, and went
To join their father near the garden gate ;
But o'cr the girls a longer time was spent,
To smooth their frocks, and place their collars straight,
To tie their bonnets, and their frills to plait.
All this the anxious mother did with care,
And turned them round with looks of joy elate,
Then kissed their cheeks, and bade them both beware
Their bonnets not to soil, nor yet their garments tear.
XXVIII.
Outside the gate two cocks and
many
hens
Were cackling, scratching, pecking in the lanc,
While some, with chickens placed in wicker pens,
Seemed quite content in durance to remain,
And teach their young to pick the golden grain.
The ducks and gcesc were splashing in a pool,
Made long before, their little field to drain,
Now mantled thick with duck-weed
green
and cool,
'Mid which the geese made sport, as they went off to school.

·50
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
XXIX.
With cheerful looks, and garments whole and clean,
They left their home, and sauntered down the lane
To where the school stood on the village-green,
Well fenced around with strong oak-palings plain,
Each urchin rude from mischief to refrain.
It was an old Elizabethan pilc,
Built long before, and destined to contain
Twelve scholars frce, until a patron vile
With smooth and oily words, the parish did beguile.
XXX.
Not far from thence the Maypole could be seen,
On which still hung the branches and the flowers,
So lately used, but now no longer green;
For Time his loveliest children still devours,
And these, like men, have their appointed hours.
And yet, methinks these rustic customs throw
A graceful charm about our English bowers,
That other lands in vain attempt to show,
Which makes old Father Time with more reluctance go.

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·Around the green the village houses stood,
Some back to back were placed, some side by side,
These built of brick, and those of brick and wood;
Ilere high and tall, there low and straggling wide.
And some which all descriptive power defied,
High gable ends with chimneys all awry,
And low thatched roofs with houseleek well supplied :
With here and there a dove-cot round and high
A cow-shed or a barn, a stable or a sty.

·52
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
XXXI.
There stood the ale-house with its antique sign,
Whereon some waggish painter had portrayed
Three hogs in armour marching in a line,
As stiff and straight as if they knew the trade
Of cutting throats, like soldiers ready made.
By some 'twas thought the satire was designed
To show how men, by brutish passions swayed,
Had lost all strength and dignity of mind,
And sunk into the beast-mere hogs in armour shrined.
XXXIII.
Beside his house a blacksmith's forge appeared,
A low thatched building with an open shed ;
Against the sides old crazy wheels were reared,
Or worn-out ploughs about the place were spread,
And one large weather-cock without a head;
Some lazy louts with rough unshaven chins
(The nuisance of each place where they are bred,)
Were skulking there, and kicked each other's shins,
Or gibed the passer-by with vulgar jests and grins.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
53
XXXIV.
The shop wherein on week-days were exposed,
At door and window, various things for salc,
Demurely now all apertures had closed
That faced the road, -no sign of weight or scale ;
But turn the corncr-what a different tale!
There stands the man of measures and of weights,
On whom each lazy slattern can prevail
To weigh the snuff or serve a “pound of eights,”
While she some patched-up lie, with ready tongue relates,
XXXV.
And there, as if at least one-half ashamed,
The butcher's shop, had all the shutters closed,
Although the door wide open still proclaimed
How for his neighbour's welfare he exposed
His soul to hell with chcerful looks composed.
The baker tvo, refining further still,
Through half the door his willingness disclosed,
With eager haste, the-hungry mouth to fill,
Provided they who came put money in the till.

·54
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
XXXVI.
The carrier's cart, thick splashed with mire and clay,
With rampant shafts stood ncar its owner's door:
The load of sundries just removed away
Ile brought from town, too late the night before
To take them home, though promised o'er e nd o'er.
But carrier Joe so loved a jug of ale,
So oflen filled, and filled again once more,
Just while he hcard, or while he told, a tale,
Till Joe quite tipsy grew, for Joe was rather frail.
XXXVII.
The village pinfold stood behind the school,
Where three old yews their heavy branches threw,
Which made the place in hottest summer cool,
And warm and snug, when wintry breezes blew.
And this was right, for those confined ne'er knew
The subtle claims of property and law;
And if they strayed where fresher herbage grew
'Twas but because they felt great nature draw
Her children to her breast, to fill their hungry maw.

·TIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
55
XXXVIII.
The wooden stocks beside the pinfold stood,
Where potty rogues their lazy limbs reclin'd,
A
sorry scene;-and
yet for public good
Thuse painful «ights were all at first designed,
To show how closely sin and shame were twined.
There ton the roundhouse built of coarse rough stone,
Wherein they kept wosc sturdy thieves confined,
Whosc itching palms, to stealing cver pronc,
Their honest neighbours' goods could never leave alone.
XXXIX.
Close by the school a little streamlet ran
Of clear spring-water, o'er its pebbly bed;
To which the village-maids with pot or pan,
Or brown stone jug, as fate or fancy led,
To fetch the sparkling fluid often sped.
And there young boys in summer days would wade,
Or splash their clothes which on the banks were sprcad;
Sonie, stretched supine, in lazy lengths were laid,
While some each other chased, or mimic tempest male.

·56 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. XL. and name, Now o'er the green, bencath the sheltering trecs, From every side the village-children came llere one by one, and there by twos and threes, Of either sex, of various age All active things, save one, and he was lane. Some tripped along like fairies o'er the green, While others lagged like culprits full of shame; And here and there a taller girl was seen Her little sister's steps to tend with careful mien. XLI. The doors unlocked, the ardent boys rushed in, With smiling faces jostling to and fro, Each striving hard to gain the favourite pin Whereon his hat or cap he might bestow- The greatest triumph which he then might know. And then the girls, more modest and more mild, With gentle steps came in, each curtsying low Before their teachers, who looked on and smiled, Rejoicing in their task to teach the poor man's child.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
57
XLII.
Just as the clock tolled forth the hour of ninc,
The school began with simple strains of praise ;
Exciting thus the children to combine,
The pleasant song of gratitude to raise
To God, whose kindness still prolonged their days;
Then kneeling down, a solemn prayer was made,
That Ile would guidc them through life's winding ways,
In darkness cheer, in strong temptation aid,
And o'er them still to cast His all-protecting shade.
XLIII.
And then the labours of the school began ;
The classes placed to cipher, or to write,
While younger groups about their tcachers ran,
To spell or read, or weekly task recite,
Conned o'er and o'er, but yet not learned aright:
Others there were not higher than the knee,
Whose lisping tongues might well a smile excite,
As oft they tried to learn those letters thrcc
Groat giants in their might, the wondrous A B C.

·58
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
XLIV.
It was in sooth a very pleasant sight,
To cast the cyc along that crowded place;
To watch the teachers anxious to invite
The youthful mind, with pleasing hopes, to trace
The path which leads to wisdom, truth, and grace ;
To note the boys their various parts enact,
Demurely some, and soine with strange grimace,
Afforded scope to guess how cach would act,
When, on life's larger stage, life's things he must transact.
XLV.
Onc dark-eyed boy was laughing, full of glee,
Because his neighbour's hat had fallen down,
For he was one, who evermore could see
Some cause for fun; a very merry clown,
Who would laugh on, despite his teacher's frown :
And one sly rogue, mischievously inclined,
Placed on another's head a feathery crown,
Then leaning back, he pointed from behind,
To make the laughing boy new cause for laughter find.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATIT.
59
XLVI.
An ardent youth, who far outstripped the rest,
IIad fixed himself within a quiet nook,
With eager eye, his lip and brow comprest,
Ile sat absorbed and buried in his book;
Sometimes he gave a long and vacant look,
Where through a painted window strcamed the light,
Then by and bye to read again betook,
As if each outward thing, however bright,
By that which filled his mind was blotted from the sight.
XLVII.
A pale-faced boy—a widow's only child,
Sat ncar the door, his long accustomed place ;
With gentle haste he took his book and smiled,
As if he loved those precious lines to trace,
Where Prophets sung
of God's redecming gracc ;
IIis large blue eyes were radiant with delight,
Although disease had trailed along his face
Those awful lines, prophetic of the blight
His mother's heart must feel, to lose him from her sight.

·60
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
XLVIII.
And some were there with dull and slecpy eyes,
Who never felt the animating fire
Which inborn genius to the heart supplies,
And prompts the struggling spirit to aspire
Where Fame exalts, and wondering crowds admire.
But those which formed by far the greatest class,
Had just enough of talent to acquire
The small amount of knowledge which would pass
Without distinguishment, amid the common mass.
XLIX.
And now, the school dismissed with praise and prayer,
About the green, in joyful groups they strolled,
For some few moments which they had to sparc,
Before the bell its well-known music tolled,
Inviting all to church, both young and old.
Then pair by pair, each hand in hand, they passed
In ranks grotesque, from laughter scarce controlled,
Although their teachers long keen glances cast,
And viewing all the line the Cottager came last.

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·And while the deep bell through the village knolled,
From various parts the congregation came:
HIcre walked a pair, both vencrably old,
There by herself a stooped and withcred dame,
And next a cripple from his childhood lame.
Then houschold groups moved slowly o'er the green,
Or coy young
girls with eyes cast down for shame,
While further on, amidst thc woody screen,
The Squire's old
roomy
coach, and Doctor's gig werc secn.

·62 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. II. Around the village grew an ancient wood A part of that huge forestry of old Where Sherwood's hero, far-fained Robin Hood, Uphold the freedom of those Saxons bold, Who scorned the Norman's sway, and took his gold. Yet history has not sullied their fair name, Nor mixed them up with common thieves. They hold The rank of patriots fighting to reclaim The country they had lost ! -Long live their honest fame! LII. One part of this old forest still remained, Of hoary oaks a venerable grove; Which all its antique majesty retained- Its massy boughs, its stems by lightning clove, Or mossy coat with clustering ivy wove. And in the inidst of this wild sylvan scenc An open space was sun-lit from above, Where, calmly placed, the village church was seen, Surrounded by a wall, adorned with creepers green.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII. 63 LIII. Before the porch a vast extensive ycw, Whose age extreme, tradition had forgot, O'er half the graves its sombre shadow tlırcw- A necdless boon; for those who lay to rot The sunshine or the storm regarded not. A strong oak seat rough-hewn, ran round the bolc, Placed there by one who loved this quict spot ; Worm-caten now, each legendary scroll With rude devices grinned, half serious and half droll. LIV. A Gothic porch projected from the wall, With loop-holes pierced and battlements complete ; One part disjointed, threatening soon to fall, Where loosened stoncs protruding from their seat Foretold how Time the builder would defeat. From one huge rent a sapling ash had grown, Its roots still nurtured in their dark retrcat; And as they grew, stone loosened after stone, Until the tottering porch was partly overthrown.

·64.'
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
Ly.
The Church itself, a venerable pile,
Though very old, was yet exceeding clean:
Long narrow windows in the Gothic style,
Stuck here and there along the sides werc seen,
With buttressed walls and massy flanks between.
A square stone tower now ivy-crowned by time,
Contained the bell, which had for ages been
Still pealing forth the same dull iron chime,
it noted, first, the march of years sublimc.
L.VI,
The walls inside with monuinents were graced,
Where quaint inscriptions homely truths conveyed;
A large stone tomb, full in the centre placed,
Most eloquently spoke of hopes decayed
And withered hearts now mouldering in its shade.
One fine old tablet. decply carved, contained
The beggar's tale, who full of seres was laid
Beside the rich man's gate and ne'er complained,
Although the fallen crumbs oft asked, he never gained.

·TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
65
LVII.
Above the old oak altar, towards the East,
Quaint legendary tales in fragments shonc
Disjointed and obscure ; part like a feast,
And part like death-here crowns, and there a bonc,
All things adverse in strange confusion strown.
As if odd portions of the rich-stained glass,
From abbcys burned, cathedrals overthrown),
Or ruined halls, here gathered in a mass,
Subserved a pious use, and showed how ages pass.
LVIII.
A low oak gallery ran from wall to wall,
Carved thickly o’cr with many a grotesque facc,
In whose grim looks we vainly would recall
Those distant days, where fancy loves to trace
The outlines dim of valour, beauty, grace.
While down below large roomy pews were ranged,
Where sons still worshipped in their father's place
From age to age, by familics unchanged,
Save one "the stranger's pew"s from private use estranged.

·66
TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
LIX.
Along the walls old tablets dimly told
The age, the name, the virtues of the dead;
Each had some tale peculiar to unfold;
But all alike to one conclusion led,
That man, at last, must death's dark valley trcad:
The brave, the beautiful, thc
gay,
The warm young heart, the grey and boary head,
In dull cold silence mixed together lay,
Life's poor distinctions lost, reduced to common clay.
grave, the
lx.
But one small tablet, near the pulpit placed,
Seemed more attractive far than all the rest;
Its mournful tale was not in letters traced,
But shadowed forth in emblems which imprest,
With lasting force, their image in the breast :
Fixed on a slab of coal-black marblc, lay
A thin white branch, with three fair rosebuds blest,
From which, the first in youthful beauty gay,
A sickle's slender edge had partly lopped away.

·TJIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
67
LXI.
This told the parson's story. He, poor man!
Long years before, a widower was made,
With three young daughters, in whose veins there ran
The same discase, that on their mother preyed,
By which he knew too well they all would fade :
And yet at times their youthful spirits rose
To such a height as they around himn played,
That he forgot, what time would yet disclose,
Until some faint sliglit sign unsluiced his secret wocs.
LXII.
Oft when he gazed with passionate delight,
On those fair forins just ripening into life,
Somc turn would bring their mother to his sight,
And wake afresh the agony and strife
He first endured when parting from his wife :
And then his cycs with sudden tcars grew dim,
His boding heart with dismal fancics rife,
While ghastly forms before him seemed to swim,
A sickness seized his heart and paralysed cach limb.

·68
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATI.
LXIII.
Yet still he strove to banish from his mind
The fearful thought that all his girls must die;
With ccascless carc, he ever sought to find
Some cheerful scheme, to which they might apply,
And make old Time with lighter wings go by:
Now in the fields he'd stray with them for hours,
Now in the woods to catch the birds they'd try;
Then in their little garden, gathering flowers,
With which, with fairy bands, they decked their tiny bowers.
1.XIV.
And thus they grow to womanhood, and onc,
llis eldest girl, was matchless in her mind
And in her form, till it had undergone
The withering process, which hc feared to find
Was lurking thief-like all his hopes behind:
For many a month, he watched her day by day
Decrease in strength, but rise in soul refined,
Until at last her spirit broke away,
Half shining, ere it passed, transparent through the clay.

·TIE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
69
LXV.
And now he stood, a meek, mild, smitten man,
In holy things to minister for God;
With artless words he told the gracious plan,
llow mercy used, and still would use the rod,
And lay the brightest flowers bencath the sod;
“And why, my friends, why is it thus," hc cried,
Why should our heavenly Father bruise the clod?
Because lle would our souls from sin divide,
As gold by fire alone from dross is purified.
LXVI.
“Yet she was fair, as most of you can tell,
And good, beyond the telling of the tongue ;
Forgive inc, then, if
my
full hcart should swell,
And from inine eyes these scalding tears be wrung,
To lose her thus, and she so good—so young !
Forgive me, Father, my torn heart is wild, -
I knew not this before, how close she clung:
Thou hast her now-how beautiful, how mild;
I would not wish her back-Oh God, thou hast
my
child!"

·70
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII,
LXVII.
With tears and sobs and oft-repeated sighs,
Both young and old her early death bewailed;
While o'er his griefs the parson seemed to rise,
As mightier faith within his breast prevailed,
And tore the curtains which her glory veiled:
“She lives !” he cried, “in circling beauty bright;
The rock is firm !Jehovah hath not failcd !
Be ours the carc, to have our garments white,
And rise like her to shine-with Jesus throned in light."
LXVIII.
'Twas not in vain, the lesson of that day,
The tears were fruitful that bedewed the eye;
More hearts than one from thence began to pray,
And fit themselves for mansions in the sky,
Now conscious of the truth, that each must die :
So Mercy lights the overwhelming gloom
Of Death's black shadows which around us lie;
While Hope survives the universal doom,
And Life immortal shows transparent through the tornb.

·Ο Α Ν ΤΟ ΙΙΙ.

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·The service o'er, the congregation gone,
Behind the rest the pastor lingered still,
That simple tablet by himself to con,
Although it waked afresh each bitter thrill,
And shook his soul with fears of future ill :
Yet still he gazed half-shuddering at the sight,
Till, kneeling down, he cried, “Oh God I thy will,
Not mine be done: I know thy ways are right;
Forgive me if I mourn ;-she was so pure and bright.”

·74
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
II.
Meanwhile towards home the Cottager returned,
With all his children clustering by his side ;
Except the youngest, who from grandam learned
Behind the rest, how Christ for sinners died,
By wicked men on Calvary crucified.
His little eyes were full of tears, while she
Related how his wounds were gaping wide,
And the red blood came streaming down the tree
Where thcy bad nailed him fast, a pitcous sight to sce.
III.
Along the lane near which their cottage stood,
They sauntered slowly homeward in the shade,
Oft catching glimpses through the opening wood,
Where snugly screened their own sweet cottage made
The fairest picture in the sun-lit glade:
A thick white smoke above the chimney rolled,
In larger masses than was oft displayed ;
A sight the boys were happy to behold,
For well they knew this sign the dinner-time foretold.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATHI.
75
IV.
Nor did they long with blank impatience wait,
Although they all for grandam had to stay,
Where
poor old Pug was near the garden gate,
And watched them come, then went a little way
And wagged his tail, as if he meant to say,
“I'm glad you 're come. Excuse me, I am old,
Or else, be sure, I'd meet you
blithe and
gay:
My limbs arc stiff, by numbing age controlled,
But yet it warms my heart, your faces to behold.”
V.
With features flushed from toiling near the fire,
The wife smiled kindly as they all came in;
She bade the girls fold up their best attire,
The boys to hang their caps on nail or pin,
But first to wipe their shoes and make no din :
Her husband's hat she then herself removed,
Delighted most that smiling look to win,
By which she knew how fully he approved
Each action of her life, and still sincerely loved.

·76
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
VI.
Placed on a cloth which her own hands had spun,
The dinner smoked inviting to the taste;
A chine of bacon boiled was nicely done,
Not over largc, midway 'twixt thrift and waste,
With young green peas and new potatoes graced;
A large hot pie, with fresh-pulled berries filled,
Displayed its round of good substantial paste,
Which showed how well the thrifty wife fulfilled
The duties of her place, in household matters skilled.
VII.
But more than all, the children's eyes were cast
Where on a dish a large plum-pudding lay,
Not over-rich, yet richer than the last
Which they had seen, twelve months before that day,
For only once a-year such things had they:
And this was made in memory of the son
Who by the soldiers had been lured away,
And now in foreign countries bore a gun,
Where he must still remain, until the war was done.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
77
VIII.
And three long tedious years had passed away,
And brought no tidings to the parents' ears;
What could they do, but trust in God, and pray
For his return in penitential tears,
With mended life to cheer their latter years.
A neighbour's son, since then enlisted, went,
And from the mother, still oppressed with fears,
He bore a Bible with her blessing scnt,
And many an earnest prayer, that George would yet repent.
IX.
And so whenc'er the soldier's birth-day came,
The large plum-pudding on the board was seen;
And oft they wished “poor Gcorge” might share the same,
And come again to tell where he had been,
Fighting the French in many a bloody scenc.
Affection thus, and hope were kept alive,
Though dismal fears at times would intervene;
Lest, after all, their son should not survive
The dangers of the war, or e'er at home arrive.
G

·78
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
Now when their meal was finished, and the grace,
They nc'er forgot, was said in fervent strain;
The girls began to straighten up the place;
The mother to remove what might remain
Till needed next, at supper
time again.
The father went the pig and cows to feed,
The boys to give the fowls the looked-for grain;
While to the porch the grandam did proceed,
To teach the little boy his picture-book to read.
XI.-
These useful labours all despatched, they came
With clean-washed hands, and faces fresh and fair:
A bluc-checked apron on the frugal dame,
A clean white
cap
above her flaxen hair;
And close beside her in his little chair
The youngest boy now sat, with serious look,
While one by one the rest in turn repair
To read a portion of that sacred book,
Whose truths refreshed the soul like Siloa's silent brook.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
79
XII.
It chanced that day the portion which they read
Contained the story of the Froward Son,
Who, careless of the tears his father shed,
A mad career of thoughtless folly run,
In woe to end, although in smiles begun.
It then pourtrayed the misery supreme
lle had to bear, when all his wealth was gone,
Till hunger fierce and wretchedness extreme
Made him the husks for swine luxurious food esteem.
XIII.
The story told, moreover, how at last
A better feeling came across his mind,
And how his sire, forgetful of the past,
Looked on the ragged wretch, and wept to find
His son returned to holier ways inclined.
The Cotter's heart beat strongly, for he felt
The moral force of that instruction kind,
Which made his soul with soft emotions melt,
And long to clasp his child ere at his feet he knelt.

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·Meanwhile from home the Cottager pursued
IIis lonely walk, where aged hoary trees
Spread o'er his path that sylvan solitude
Which strikes the soul, in solcmn scenes like these,
With conscious awe that God the heart c'er sces.
His way led onwards through a mossy dell,
At all times sheltered from the wintry breeze,
Where, as he passed, a burst of sunlight fell
And silvered o'er afresh THE LOVERS' HAUNTED WELL.

·82
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH,
XVII.
It was a spot well chosen to uphold
The name it bore, by long tradition known;
For massy oaks, a thousand winters old,
In forms fantastic and uncouth had grown
From jutting rocks or heaps of ragged stone.
Decp down the glen a rocky basin lay,
Where always bright the crystal waters shone;
But nc'er ran o'er and could not get away
Altho' the wceping fount kept dripping night and day.
XVIII.
But that which filled and fixed the anxious sight
With secret awe and dark mysterious dread, -
A fair young girl of alabaster white
Kneeled by the Well and o'er it hung her hcad
As if its depths contained her lover dead.
Her small white hands she clasped in bitter woe,
From ber fair face, hope's last faint beam had fled;
While all the rigid features served to show
How wildly she deplored the youth who lay below.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
83
XIX.
The tale was old, and all the country knew
Ilow, here, two lovers met, in days of yore :
In secret nursed the maiden's passion grew,
For she was rich, and he she loved secmed poor;
And her proud sire betrothed her long before
To one whosc birth was cqual to her own:
But when was love so blind as to implore
That other eyes should make the virtucs known,
lle first discerns himself, and thinks he secs alone?
XX.
The high-born youth parental carc designed,
A few months hence, that lady fair should wed,
In stranger's garb her worth resolved to find,
Lest he perchance, by erring custom led,
Might take a mate unsuited to his bed :
Her father's pledge the maiden never knew,
Else had she feared her own frec path to trcad;
Unwarned she ran where love's first impulse drew,
And in her child-like heart a wondrous passion grew.

·84
TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
XXI.
And through these woods the youthful lovers strayed,
Inhaling bliss
young lovers only know;
When lifc shincs fair in early charms arrayed,
Without the shadow of approaching woe,
Its chilling gloom across our path to throw.
And day by day they sought this shady dell,
For here their passion first began to grow;
With joy unveiled she loved to hear him tell
The tale that won her heart, beside the flaunted Well.
XXII.
But bliss like theirs was not designed to last;
A plant so fair was sure to fade away;
That brilliant sky would soon be overcast,
And clouds and storms defile the lovely day:
For carthly joys, alas ! how short their stay.
There, as they sat, with purest raptures filled,
The bolt was shot, the lover bleeding lay:
The maiden's heart with icy horror thrilled,
Transfixed beside the form her angry sire bad killed.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
85
XXIII.
She never spoke, but, kneeling by the Well
In which her lover's bleeding corse was thrown,
Seemed rooted there, as if some sudden spell
Congealed her frame to cold uniclting stone,
Where life or hcat would never more be known.
In angry tones her father bade her rise;
She heard him not; her gentle soul had flown
To join her love, where more auspicious skies
Would shine upon their bliss, and love immortalise.
XXIV.
With deep regret and unavailing tears
The father learned how his rash hand had slain
The very man that he had hoped for years
His daughter's hand, but not her heart, might gain,
For that he decmed was labour spent in vain.
But now his child, his only child, was dead,
And on his soul foul murder's bloody stain,
By vengeful conscience filled with constant dread,
And hopeless in his grief, to these old woods he fled.

·86
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
XXV.
Beneath that tree, and in yon little cave
He made his home--a cheerless dreary place;
There would hc sit and look upon the wave,
His own dark story in its depths to trace,
While tears on tcars were coursing down his face.
Years roll'd away, and still within his cell
That old man mourned his sufferings and disgrace:
The friends who came, he sought not to repel,
But never from his lips a single sentence fell,
XXVI.
At length the statue of his child was brought
To soothe the torture of his wounded breast;
In foreign lands the costly stone was wrought
With such deep skill, the image seemed possest
Of life itself, in marble whiteness drest.
He gazed-he shook-his haggard eye grew wild,
Unearthly fears his trembling soul opprest:
He looked again, and on the statue smiled,
Then sunk, and dying cried, “I come, I come, my child !"

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
87
XXVII.
Since then, 'tis said, their spirits walk this glen
Oncc every year, the day thc lover died;
They neither court, nor shun the gaze of men,
But hand in hand with pcnsive steps they glide
Till by the brink they all stand side by side.
Then o'er the spot just where the lover fell,
Still cursed and bare with no green grass supplied,
Awhile they sit, as if they seemed to tell
Why first the place was called “THE LOVER's HAUNTED
WELL."
XXVIII.
This ancient talc, to rustic minds endeared,
The Cotter knew, but doubted, where it said
How once a-year their spirits still appeared,
Like forms of earth in thin white robes arrayed,
To tread with pensive steps this quiet glade:
'Twas his belief their gentle souls had flown
To dwell in joys which no rude storms invade;
And that the sire, by long repentance shown,
Had made his peace with God, and lived before his throne.

·88
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
XXIX.
But yet he knew how fancy loves to fill
With superstitious sights old spots like these ;
Where all around was so serene and still,
That leaves just parting from their parent trees
Were heard to sigh and whisper to the brecze:
Where flickering lights are grouped with heavy shades,
Then lost again before the gazer secs,
How sudden sud-bursts shoot through narrow glades,
And light some moss-clad trec which in a moment fades.
XXX.
There wreaths of mist, in drcamy twilight seen,
Are sleeping still, or waving to and fro,
Now creeping up
amid the branches green,
Or squatting close along the ground below,
And now like forms of living things they go :
No wonder, minds, by previous fears opprest,
In these dim scenes should feel their terrors grow,
Till waving mists should seem of life possest,
And branches, wild, uncouth, in ghastly forms be dressed.

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·With some such thoughts the Cotter left the wood,
Half grieved to quit its cool delightful shade,
And came where on its skirts a cottage stood,
Well thatched with straw, of stud and plaster made,
Time-worn in parts, but not at all decayed.
Before the gate there ran a little brook,
O'er which a plank of rough-hewn wood was laid;
Beneath the porch, with pleased and smiling look,
An old man sat to hcar God's true and holy book.

·90
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
XXXII.
That holy book his lovely grandchild read,
A gentle girl some twenty summers old;
Her native curls hung clustering round her head,
Or down her neck the auburn tresses roll’d,
And in the sunshine glowed like burnished gold.
Iler deep blue eyes had just the violet's shade
Lit
up with sense, by modesty controlled,
Wherc filial love and fond affection made
A mingled charm more sweet than violets c'er displayed.
XXXIII.
Close by the pales, the Cottager remained,
To chat a moment with that finc old man,
Whose gathering age no lack of health sustained,
Although his days beyond the usual span
Of human life full twenty summers ran.
But few events his simple history knew,
For in that cottage first his life began;
From youth through manhood in its walls he grew,
Till time above his brow a snowy mantle threw.

·TIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
91
XXXIV.
The few slight changes in his quiet life
Seemed things of course, and scarce disturbed his rest;
The first of these, was when he took a wife,
Of frugal ways and some few pounds possest;
With manners kind and rustic beauty blest.
Twice thirty years as man and wife they dwelt,
With no rude jars their quict to molest ;
And whicn at last beside her
grave he knelt,
Hc shed not many tears, though truly gricved he felt.
XXXV.
One child thcy had—a fearless daring boy,
Who scorned the simple life his parents led;
More stirring scenes to him afforded joy,
Where tempting hopes before his mind were spread
In golden hucs, by magic fancy brcd.
And so from home although with tears he went,
In crowded streets the path of life to trcad;
More happy far could be have been content
To stay and end his course where his young days were
spent.

·92
TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
XXXVI.
Time brought him back, a strangely altered man,
IIis health exhausted, prematurely old;
The race of life too swiftly had he ran,
The strife with time too fecble to uphold,
IIc reached the goal, cre half his days were told.
Sick, sad, subdued, and weary of the strife,
His prospects blighted, and his heart grown cold,
He just returned, at home to end his life,
And left an infant girl, sole relict of his wife.
XXXVII.
That infant girl to womanhood was grown,
The one sole comfort of that old man's breast;
While she perchance had feelings all her own,
In secret nursed and ne'cr in words exprest,
Although her cheeks some tender things confest.
Thus when the Cotter asked them both to tca,
More knowing men than they were, might have guessed
That those warm blushes on her cheeks must be
Excited by a cause, more deep than they could see.

·TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATI).
93
XXXVIII.
For neither knew, what she had long time known,
How Gcorge, the Cotter's son, had sought her hand, -
That her refusal of his suit alone
Had forced the youth to seck a foreign strand,
And carry arins in an unfriendly land.
Ilow
many
times she wished that he would come!
And schemes of future bliss she often planned :
Why should he now in distant countries roam,
When he might live with her so happily at home?
XXXIX.
Then came the fear that other eyes might charm,
And wake the flame she smothered in his breast;
At other times her heart would take alarm,
And ghastly wounds or bloody death suggest,
Or else in prison chained by want oppressed.
And thus her thoughts kept wandering to and fro,
And broken visions oft disturbed her rest;
But midst her fears hope still kept whispering low,
“ He surely will come back ;—why did you
let him go?"
н

·94
TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
XI..
92
So when her grandsire asked her “ should they go ?”
Iler sparkling cyes shot forth a brilliant ray,
As if they said, “ How could you answer, no?
'Twill be so pleasant through the wood to stray,
And hear the birds while sauntering on the way."
'Twas soon agreed ; for v'er the old man's heart
Her lightest wishes ruled with sovercign sway:
“ Be surc," the Cotter said, “in time to start.”
“ We will,” the old man cried, "and soon at night depart."
XLI.
The Cotter then pursued his lonely walk,
From place to place, beneath the burning sun;
Sometimes he stopped at lonely luts to talk
Of Jesus Christ, God's everlasting Son,
And all the mighty wonders IIe had done.
He bade the mourner view his smiling face,
Or warned the hardened sinner how to shun
The dreadful torments of that awful place,
Where hope will never smile on those who scorned his grace.

·TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
95
XLII.
"Twas not in vain he laboured thus to save
Untutored souls from ignorance and woc;
For oft through him though sinking to the grave,
Repenting tears from stony cyes would flow,
And dying men thcir Saviour lcarned to know:
Ilow oft the mind, by doubt and fer opprest,
Through his instructions felt a sacred glow
Of holy sunshine warming through the breast,
Or full of faith and joy had gone to cndless rest.
XLIII.
Now froin the road the Cotter turned aside,
And crosscd a moor with gorse and bracken gay;
A drcary waste extending far and wide,
To where some colliers' huts were raised of clay,
In one of which a dying woman lay.
The little chamber where she kept her bed,
With age and want of care was giving way,
For long wide rents along the walls had spread,
And rafters cracked in two, hung threatening o'cr her hcad.

·96
TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
XLIV.
The room was small, and scarce contained a thing
Besides the bed, which crcaked with crazy age;
Some tattered garments hung across a string,
All patched and rent, as if their utmost stage
Of scrvitude was merely to prcsage
Their owner's end, which now was drawing nigh,
With little aid her sufferings to assuage,
Save what her poorer neighbours might supply
From their exhausted stores, until the wretch should die.
XLV.
And die ere long the Cotter saw she must,
For Death was there, and battling for his prey ;
ller wasted form, so near akin to dust,
That onc slight shock the fecblc pulse would stay,
And close the taper's intermittent ray.
Iler face appeared a sharp and bony rim,
ller lips were thin and tinged with bluish grey;
The hollow eye with gathering films was dim,
And mortal coldness now had paralysed cach limb).

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·And this was she who, five short years before,
In pride of youth was called “ The Village Belle;"
Her cottage dress with simple taste she wore,
Put neatly on, and it became her well,
As many a youth with beating heart could tell.
The country lads contended who should gain
Sweet Mary's smile, and in her grace excel ;
But though they ne'er were treated with disdain,
Not
one, among
them all, her favour could obtain.

·98
TIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
XLVII.
Could she not love, that thus she turned aside
Those pretty eyes, so soft and yet so bright?
How could it be?—they knew it was not pride,
For Mary was not proud, though well she might
Be lifted up, if pride could e'er be right.
How was it then?-had she her heart bestowed
Away from home, on one a stranger quite ?
Her rosy cheeks with mantling blushes glowed ;-
She loves ! — but whom ? they asked; — the coming
summer showed.
XLIII.
A gay young spark lived in the neighbouring town
Wherc Mary went, each weekly market day;
Her small straw hat, and dress of russet brown,
First caused the youth some civil things to say,
And by and by to meet her on the way.
Ile talked of love, of faithful, lasting love,
And never sought to turn her steps astray,
Till Mary's heart at length began to move,
And yielding to his wish, her fate with his she wove.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
99
XLIX.
Their honeymoon was spent without a cloud;
But three months o'er, a trivial change was seen,
His voice was heard at intervals too loud,
And Mary sometimes wondered where he'd been,
When hours beyond his time would intervene.
- Think IIIM to blame ! Oh, no! she knew he'd come;
'Twas business kept himn, something unforeseen;
Thank God, her Henry did not wish to roam,
His heart was not at ease when absent from his home."
L.
Was this the case ?-was Henry still so fond
Of her and home, that he could now forego
Those jovial scenes, which led him far beyond
Where Prudence stood, and threatening future woc ?
To all, his fond excuses thundered “ No!”
Alas ! for him, alas! for his
young
bride,
The poisoned cup was working, sure, though slow :
If sought, when absent from his Mary's side,
Somnc festive scene alone his wavering heart supplied.

·100
TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
LI.
But this poor Mary knew not; she believed
Her husband all fond woman's wish might find;
Had she then known, how would her heart have grieved,
That one so generous, one so good and kind,
For pleasure's cup should thus debase his mind!
And so at home she checred her lonely breast
With pleasing hopes, to all the future blind;
Strong in his love, she thought she should be blest,
When nestling to her heart, her babe would sweetly rest.
LII.
The babe was born a healthy, lovely child ; -
Was ever mother half so full of joy ?
Then Henry came, and took the babc, and smiled,
And called his wife a treasure, and his boy
The very thing he wanted, to employ
His vacant time, and please him day by day;
'Twould be so swect to play with such a toy,
To watch the mind first shed its dawning ray,
Till he could run, and speak, and merry gambols play.

·TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
101
LIII.
-
What fickle stuff poor human nature is!
One little week from this had scarcely fled,
Erc llenry strayed to scenes of sensual bliss,
· And, wild with drink, to further folly led,
Was false the first time to his Mary's bed :
But shc, poor thing ! still dreaming she was blest
With richer joys, her blooming hopes she fed ;
The little nurscling to her heart shc prest
With all a mother's joy, to give thic babc licr breast.
LIV.
ller dream of bliss for months was yet prolonged;
For all her husband told her she believed ;
And when he said increasing business thronged
So fast upon him, that, however grieved
IIis hcart might be, he could not get relieved:
The trusting wife, by fond affectiou swayed,
Without a doubt the lying tale received,
Until his state by fatal chance displayed,
To her affrighted mind the dreadful truth betrayed.

·102
TJIE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
LV.
Induced by one who called herself a friend,
In Henry's absence to behold a play,
She went, but waited not to sec the end,
For strange misgivings on her spirit lay,
Lest this was wrong-her husb nd far
away:
In hurrying home she passed a narrow street,
Where one faint lamp diffused a sickly ray
Athwart the darkness, where she chanced to meet
lIer husband recling past with drunken staggering fect.
L.VI.
Aghast she stood, o'crwhelmed with sudden woc,
ller trembling limbs fast rooted to the ground;
IIer brain felt scorched, -no cooling tears would flow,
And o'er her eyes, a darkness most profound
With horrors vaguely filled scemed floating round.
llow she reached home was not distinctly said,
But months on months, in dark delirium bound,
She lay unconscious of the gloom which spread,
In still increasing depth, round her devoted head;

·TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATI.
103
L.VII.
And when she waked to consciousness once more,
'Twas but to find her darkest fcars too truc;
Iler husband, now more reckless than before,
IIis vicious course determined to pursuc,
Regardless of tlc ills that must accrue.
For days and weeks he kept himself away,
And left his wife in bitterness to ruc
That this low vice her husband's Licart should
sway.
And blight their home of joy with ruinous decay.
LVIII.
Increasing still with cach rencwed excess,
The love of drink grew stronger day by day;
What little shame he sometime might possess,
This fatal passion had removed away,
And all his better feelings prostrate lay:
Ilis pride itself, which one time led him on
In dress to shine the gayest of the gay,
Even that last doubtful sentinel was gone,
And his dark mind depraved, of self respect had none.

·104
TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
LIX.
Then Want approached, just like an armed man,
And tore the garments from his altered frame;
The check once hcalthy, now grew palc and wan,-
The dull sunk eye had lost its former flame,
And sneers and cold contempt sat on his name:
Cast off by those who taught hin first to sin,
The first to tempt him and the first to blame ; -
lle mixed with wretches who rejoiced to win,
Even at the price of life, thcir worshipped idol, Gin.
IX.
Ilis poor meck wife in solitude remained,
Still toiling on to carn the scanty bread,
Which scarce her own and baby's life sustained,
To rags reduced, and oft by hunger led
To look with gloomy pleasure on the dead:
Yet all the time her lips were never known
To blame the man whose fatal folly bred
Disease and want, and anguish, now upgrown
To such a fatal height, that hope was overthrown.

·TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
105
LXI.
Years gloomed along, cach darker than the last,
More sad, niore cheerless as they rolled away;
More dark, because the brightness of the past
Still shed at times a faint and flickering ray,
Like broken sunlight o'er a stormy day.
If on her face a sickly smile was seen,
It passed off soon, as if afraid to stay ;
Rising perchance from thoughts of what had been
The visions of her mind, in other days serene.
LXII.
If llenry, now a ragged meagre wrctch,
To where she lived at some odd times returned,
'Twas not to cheer her, but he came to fetch
Some household thing his feeble wife had earned,
To pawn for drink, for which he ever ycarned.
Thus one by one the chairs and tables went,-
Pans, pots and cups were into money turned;
The very garments from her back he rent,
Regardless of her tcars, and all for gin was spent.
I

·106
TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
LXIII.
At length, grown sick, and pinched for want of food,
She lay unable from her bed to rise ;
IIer little boy, at all times kind and good,
Her only friend, to soothe or sympathise,
Stood close beside her couch with weeping eyes.
The brutal husband to her chamber came
And seized her only blanket, as a prize :
Then laughed, while she, with woman's modest shame
Strove hard to hide her poor emaciated framic.
LXIV.
“Oh father, father!" cried the weeping child,
“ Tear not the blanket from poor mother's bed ;
What will she do, when wintry winds blow wild,
Sick as she is, and starved for want of bread ?"
• What do I care," the frantic villain said:
“I must have drink, and this more gin will buy;
hold, or I will strike
you
dead,
And sell you both !—why don't your mother die?--
She'll need no blankets then--they want none in the sky.”
Let go your

·TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
107
LXV.
With these unfccling taunts hc rudely tore
The scanty covering from the struggling boy,
Who fell exhausted on the rugged floor,
Bercft of sensc, unable to annoy
With childish strife, his father's fiendish joy.
Before he rose that father strude away,
As if he wished his offspring to destroy:
The wretched wife in speechless anguish lay,
Ilalf tempted to believe 'twas quite in vain to pray.
LXVI.
From that dark hour poor Mary's fate was sealed,
By want, and woe, and carc so long opprest;
Beneath the shock her feeble spirits recled,
Long lingering hope deserted her sad brcast:
The grave-the gravc-her only place of rest !
One tie remained, a strong and tender tic,-
Her poor dear child must sink by want opprest,
No friendly neighbour could her place supply:
Were he but safe, how soon, how gladly would she die !

·108
TJIE COTTAGER'S SABBATI.
LXVII.
“ Fear not for him," the Cottager replied,
“My boys shall take him to their little bed;
Whatc'er he needs I will myself provide,
And bring him up till he can earn his bread;
By honcst toil to humble plenty lod.
Fcar nd for him, but let your mind repose
On Christ alone, who once for sinners bled,
And now eternal happiness bestows
On all who trust in Him, since from the grave he rose.
1.XVIII
Whilst thus, in tones of homely kindness full,
The good man tried to soothe away her fears,
A gentle calm her spirit scemed to lull,
Half mix'd with doubt, afraid to trust her cars :
And then o'erjoyed she shed a flood of tears.
“Oh God, my God! I will be thine,” she cried;
“ This pays me back the griefs of many years;
My child, my child! thy wants shall be supplied :
I die contented now," -- and saying this, she died.

·CANTO IV. IV

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·A RURAL arbour in the garden stood,
Of beech-wood formed, with scented creepers lined;
And in the midst a grotesque picce of wood,
With sundry stumps of trees in ragged rind,
To serve as chairs, and table, each designed.
Right over head the branches formed a roof
Of curious work, so close together twined,
That human skill could ne'er with web and woof
Compose so fine a mesh, by nature waterproof.

·112
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
JI.
The back and sides were walled with living green,
Wherc shades harmonious mingling met the view;
And here and there moss-roses might be sccn,
With jasmine' or clematis peeping through
The verdant wall, of variegated hue.
A bright laburnum ncar the entrance stood,
Its yellow ringlets waving to and fro:
And round about a thick impervious wood,
Where clumps of flowers adorned the quiet neighbourhood.
111.
For many a year the Cottager had tried
To add new beauties to this favourite spot;
The choicest flowers he trained against its side,
Each straggling branch he pruned or taught to knot
Its twisting fibres where he might allot.
Shrub, flower, and trec, for balm and beauty known,
Were all united in this rural-grot:
By fostering card to full perfection grown,
That leafy arbour now in matchless beauty shone.

·TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
113
IV.
When sultry suns shot down their fervid beams,
Without a cloud the gaping carth to screen,
And meadowy banks that sloped by sparkling streams
Worc parched and brown without a speck of green,
And drooping leaves on every tree were scen:-
The shady arbour still expelled the heat,
No wandering ray e'er came the boughs between,
Kept by the Cotter always trimmed and ncat,
On Sabbath days they oft enjoyed their cool retreat.
There, by his wife, the place he always chosc,
The Cotter sat, while she dispensed the tea;
l'oor George's sweetheart, blushing like a rose,
Took
up the child and placed it on her knce,
O’erjoyed and glad with George's friends to be.
The two young girls about the old man hung,
And stroked his hair or chatted merrily;
While both the boys around the stranger clung“
Poor Mary's orphan-child-to feel his loss too young.

·114
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
VI.
The massy loaf of hearth-baked wheaten bread,
In thick substantial slices wore away,
With fresh-made butter plentifully spread ;
While smoking cakes about the table lay
With jam or jelly lined, to grace the day.
The cooling cress their garden stream supplied,
Or lettuce young, spread out in green array:
Thick yellow cream, her humble dairy's pride,
T enrich their fragrant tca, did the good dame provide.
VII.
While round the board the cheerful cups were sent,
They chatted gravely as became their years :
The old man spoke of some far-gone event,
The Cotter's wife expressed her present fears
About her son, and shed "some natural tears."
The boys and girls were busy with their cakes,
More pleased to eat, than to regale their ears
With tales antique, which fitful memory wakes,
While dcep lethargic age with by-gonc fancies quakes.

·TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
115
VIII.
Nor, while the youngsters thus their food enjoyed,
Did those in years this pleasing task neglect;
For one and all were scriously cmployed
With brcad or cake, as fancy might direct,
Or appctite suggest less circumspect.
Yet one was there, more joyous than the rest,
Who cake and tea did cqually neglect:
And why ? Such pleasant feelings filled her brcast,
For in her gentle heart young Love had made his nest.
1...
And what was food, or what was tea to hier?-
Iler own sweet fancies fed and filled her mind;
What bright deductions might not hope infer?
Since all around her looked so good and kind,
While no one guessed what secret ties might bind.
If George were berc, she thought, but did not say,
What lasting joys they might together find ?
“Let him return; I'll try to make him stay:
It was a foolish act, to let him go away."

·116
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
X.
“Come Kate, my girl," the Cottager exclaimed,
• Your tea is cold-set down that prating boy:
llere, take this cake, which after George is nanıcıl;
Nay, never blush, you need not now look coy;--
Would he were here to mingle in our joy!”
“I wish he werc," half trembled on her lip,
But, quite confused, she snatched the child's new toy,
A penny drum, from which she tried to sip;
Then finding her mistakc, let cup
and saucer slip.
XI.
The Cotter's thoughts were otherwise engaged,
Or he had seen what Kate would fain conceal:
Not so his wife, whose watchful mind presaged
That her
young
heart about their son must feel
More than her lips were likely to reveal.
Alarmed at first, shc scanned the maiden o'er,
Whose mild blue eyes replied to her appeal;
Their mutual looks a hidden mcaning bore,
Well understood by both, both smiled, but nothing more.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
117
XII.
“ Shall I," said Kate," the tea-things take away?"
The mother smiled, and nodding gave conscnt,
Rejoiced to see her feelings thus display
Their proper course, and as the maiden went,
She thought that George with Kate would be content.
Then nursing up her own fond thoughts, she smiled
Abstracted, pondering o'er the glad event;
Until her husband rose, to please the child,
And let him crop a flower, that grew too large and wild.
XIII.
When Kate returned, the Cottager proposed,
That one and all should join to sing a Psalm;
Sincc God their Father had to each disclosed
Such proofs of love, that well they might embalm
llis name in praisc, this summer-cvening calm.
No voice dissentient murmured as he rose
And towered above them, like a goodly palm:
With native taste they sang the psalm he chose,
Melodious as it broke the Sabbath's decp repose.
K

·118
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATI.
XIV.
The pleasant anthem rising o'er the trees,
And melting sweetly in the deep-blue sky:
Was faintly answered by the trembling breeze
And warbling brouk, which gently wandering by,
Sung to the banks whose murmuring leaves reply.
The distant woods grew vocal with their song,
Where long green glades 'twixt old tall trees did lie,
Like hoary aisles in some cathedral strong,
Still making more sublime the sounds their depths prolong.
XV.
“ Come now, my boys," the Cotter said, “ we'll hcar
“The little tales that you have Icarned to-day;
lIcre, James, stand up and let your voice be clear, -
Mind well your stops, and take grcat care to say
In proper tones, each sentence, grave or gay.”
The youngster's cheeks a transient blush o'erspread,
And then he coughcd to clear his fears away;
More calm at length he lifted up his head,
And in a deep low voice, what follows here, he said.

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·“The mournful brecze sighs sad through Codnor Hall,
Where nettles wild in broken casements grow;
Through long widc cracks the scattered moonbeams fall,
And rustling weeds wave idly to and fro
O'er broken floors and gaping vaults below.
On roofless walls portentous Ruin scowls;
A dreary change the voiceless chambers show:
For there the fox through each apartment prowls,
Disturbing as he creeps
the dreams of sleeping owls.
..

·120
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
XVII.
“ White hoary moss is coated on the wall ;
Dark ivy waves in Beauty's broken bower;
Disjointed stones from sinking arches fall;
The wide hall chimney, open to the shower,
More dreary looks than desolated tower.
Mid long dank weeds the aged thistlc grows,
Where once the 'Lady's Garden' used to flower:
Where still is seen a weak and sickly rose,
That o'er the ruined waste a faded beauty throws.
XVIII.
“ Uncounted leaves fill up the choaking moat,
Where fallen beams and broken columns lic;
With scattered fragments of a rotten boat,
Confusedly mixed chaotic to the eye,-
Part standing quite erect, but more awry.
The massy gates like skeletons appear,
Whose crumbling dust their outward looks belic:
While gate-ways dark sepulchral terrors wear,
And all about the place is silent, sad, and drear.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
121
XIX.
“llow changed the scene, since first Lord Thomas
brought
llis youthful bride to grace his father's halls !
When bannered knights and bright-eyed ladies sought
The festive joys that sparkled in these walls,
In ceaseless rounds of masquerades and balls.
The new-born days successive pleasures bring;
To join the chase the shrilly bugle calls,
Or minstrels
gay
their
merry
roundels sing,
And loud obstrcperous mirth makes roof and rafters ring.
XX.
“ Month rolled on month, and years on ycars werc piled,
Without abatement of that tide of joy:
Around their path the rosy moments smiled;
No cloud arose their sunshine to destroy,
Or accident befell, that might annoy.
Wealth, honour, state and pleasure at command,
A thousand menials toiled in his employ :
O'er hill and dale his wide domains expand,
"Twould take a summicr’s day, to ride across his land.

·122
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
XXI.
• What ails Lord Thomas ? Gloomy, dark, severe;
By fits he starts or hurries up and down ;
Now stops to gaze, his wild cyes
full of fear,
Then starting forth, hic darts an angry frown,
Or laughs in scorn bis inward fears to drown.
What ails Lord Thomas ?-once so blythe and gay,
So rich and great, so full of fair renown?
Alas! for him the passion rose for play:
And now the fatal dicc have thrown his lands
away
XXII.
“Where hides he now? Rude strangers claim his Hall;
His wife hath sickened like a blighted flower;
Thosc summer-friends unmoved behold his fall,
Who hung about him in his day of power :
And now assist his substance to devour.
Where hides he now? Behold
yon
roofless shed,
To storms exposed, and soaking with the shower :
There may you see the great Lord Thomas dead,
Whose famished looks declare, he died for want of bread." 4

·TIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
123
XXIII.
When thus the boy his gloomy tale had donc,
And stood in doubt, half-pleased and half-ashamed ;
The Cotter’s wife put forth her younger son,
But hoped his story might be better framed
Than James's tale, which he had rightly named.
The timid boy looked mildly in her face,
And saw the smile his mute expression clairned ;
Assured at once, he sunk in her embrace,
Then blushing to the brow, he took his brother's place.
XXIV.
“Once on a time there lived a little boy,5
So mild and good, he never learned to frown;
Ilis gentle heart was always full of joy,
And full of lovc; and love was like a crown
Of glory round his brow, from God sent down.
Whoever saw him, loved him, for his eyes
Were so confiding, they were sure to drown
All cold reserve in gladness and surprise,
That one was found on earth, so like them in the skies.

·124
TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
XXV.
“ The little birds all know him, and would hop
About his path, and peep
into his face ;
And one sweet robin on the rail would stop
Till he came up, and showed of fear no trace,
But followed him abont from place to place.
The shccp and cows sccmcd pleased to see hiin go,
And rabbits wild about his feet would race;
The very fish by instinct scemed to know
The goodness of this boy, and signs of joy would show.
XXVI.
“ It chanced one day, as down a lane he passed,
In converse swcet with butterflies and flowers;
Hc found a lamb by envious thorns held fast,
Despite its piteous cries for many hours :
Its woolly coat all wet with driving showers.
My pretty lamb, I'll set you free,' he cried,
And then to set it free he strained his powers;
llave patience, dear-how fast the thorns arc lica:
Be gentle,-gentle now-or you will tcar
your
side.'

·TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
125
XXVII.
“ That little lanıb and hc at once were friends,
And where he went, his woolly friend would go :
No matter who beside the lamb attends,
It never leaves him, let who will say no,
But clings about his legs its love to show.
Bright sunny days together they would pass,
Now romping, full of play, now wandering slow;
And when fatigued, young thoughtless things, alas !
They both would fall asleep together on the grass.
XXVIII.
“ And thus they lived for many, many days,
Until at last the child was taken ill;
Ilis
eyes grew
dull-his head he could not raise,
But on his mother's knee lay sad and still :
And sometimes burned like fire, and then grew chill.
They laid him down within his little bed,
And brought the Leech to try his healing skill;
But fast and fast the gathering fever spread,
And soon his speech grew wild with lightness in his head.

·126
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
XXIX.
“ And all the time that little boy was ill,
The patient lainb bencath his window lay;
It rained-it blew—but there the lamb lay still,
The live-long night, though cold, and all the day,
And never oncc was seen to go away..
They brought him milk--they brought him dainty bread,
Twas all in vain; the food untouched might stay:
But when they came he reared his languid head,
And moaned as if to ask · Is my young master dead?'
XXX.
“At length the fever left him, and the child
Scemed just awakened from a troubled sleep;
lIis mild blue eyes le opened, and he smiled
So sweetly on them, with a love so deep,
That all who saw him could not choose but weep.
• Where is my lamb, my pretty lamb,' he cried ;
'I thought I heard him near the window creep;
Have I been ill? What's this
upon my
side?
Dear mother, bring my lamb!—'He's coming,' she replied.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATI.
127
XXXI.
“ And oh! the joy those two young things displayed,
Once more to be together;-twas a sight
Where innocence, and love, and joy pourtrayed
What man should be, were his affections right;
And what he may be by the Saviour's might.
Thrice holy Lamb! how great thy love must be,
To bleed for those who did thy goodness slight;
And since for man thou dicilst upon the tree,
Ob! tcach my trusting heart to clcavc and cling to thee."
XIXIT.
92
“ Thank God!" said Kate, her eyes suffused with tears,
“The child, the lamb are both preserved alive!
While they were ill, I had so many fears
Lest, after all, they neither should survive,
To show the world how hearts in love can thrivc.”
Why, Kate, my girl !” her aged grandsire said,
“To fall in love, I think thou'lt soon contrive
Thou speak'st so warm."-Kate blushing hung her head,
Half smiling to herself, but not a word she said.
66

·128
TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
XXXIII.
“Now for a walk," the Cottager exclained.
“A walk, a walk !" liis laughing girls replied ;
The cheerful wife no vain excuses frained,
But dressed herself, while Kate cach bonnet tied,
And took the youngsters frisking by her side.
Then down the lanc, the Cotter and his guest
Went sauntering first,—the poor old dog their guide:
The three young boys about their mother prest,
And Mary's orphan-child came thronging with the rest.
XXXIV.
The clcar round sun was sinking down the sky,
And leafy trees extensive shadows throw;
Majestic clouds likc gorgcous drapery
Stretched far away in heaven's imperial blue,
Till, lost in air, they melted from the view.
Above the woods uprose a distant spire,
Where round and round the glossy rooks still flew :
The glittering vane glowed like a bird of fire,
Uprising towards the sky to teach us to aspire.

·TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
129
XXXV.
O'er grassy vales with cot and orchard strowed,
Where sheep and cows through clover-pastures stray ;
The distant hills with golden sunshine glowed,
While clear smooth streams like molten silver lay,
"Twixt meadow-lands enriched with cocks of hay.
And all around was so screne and still
That not a leaf was quivering on the spray:
The gurgling stream that turns the clacking mill,
Infected by the heat, rolled lazy down the hill,
XXXVI.
Then faintly brawling underneath the trees
It here and therc caught glimpses of the sky;
And made low answer to the murmuring becs
Which to and fro laboriously did fly,
Still rifling sweet-lipped flowers that grew hard by.
Far in the distance sheep-bells tinkled clear,
And now and then was heard thc lapwing's cry:
While
many
a sound came softened on the car
From song of woodland bird, and low of brindled steer.
L.

·130
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
XXXVII.
Through scenes like these they sauntered slowly on,
From field to field, oft stopping as they went,
Some curious herb or lofty tree to con,
While now and then cach gladsome heart would vent
Wild bursts of joy, or dying flower lament.
Now here, now there, the happy children sped,
And each new joy a new excitement lent;
Now o'er the path large heaps of flowers they sprcad,
And then in mimic fcar across the fields they flcd.
XXXVIII.
"Come, boys," said Katc, “beyond this hill there stands
A fine old tree that's called “The Lover's Oak ;'
Up sprung the lads, and seized her glowing hands,
And like young deer across the field they broke,
Or youthful steeds that never felt the yoke.
They gained the top, they scampercd down the side,
To try their speed each other did provoko;
On, on each went with still increasing stride,
And scarcely could they stop, when o'er the valley wide.

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·15
“ This tree," said Katebut ere she more could say,
ller features changed,-her rosy cheeks grew pale,
Her whole regard was fixed on one who lay
Beneath the tree to rest his body frail,
Where grief or sickness told a heavy tale.
His pallid cheeks and deeply-sunken eyes,
Thin faltering limbs, showed sickness must prevail;
And there exposed, with none to heed his cries,
Exhausted on the ground, the sickly creature lics.

·132
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
XL.
66 What ails
you, Kate?" the boys astonished cried :
“Are you unwell ?- you shake and shiver so."
66 No-not unwell-not now," poor
Kate replied,
“But who is that? It must be! Is it ?- no !
And yet it must be--yes! it is, I know :-
Oh! Gcorge," she cried, "you're very, very ill!”
“I am indecd,” he answered, murmuring low;
“But yet perhaps I may recover still
If you”—“Hush! hush!" she cried, "they're coming down
the hill."
XLI.
“ It matters not,” the sickly youth replied,
“ Who comes or goes,–I care for none but thee :
How oft in dreams I've wandered by thy side,
Through these sweet scenes in converse kind and frec;
And wearying waked an exilc still to be.
These pleasant scenes, for which I fondly pined,
Just as they were in former
years
I
And this old oak hath still
upon
its rind
The name of lier I loved,-both then and now unkind."
see ;

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
133
XLII.
6 Nor then nor now the least unkind to thee,
Ill-judging youth !—I loved thee far too well ;
If thou hadst seen, what now thou shalt not see,
Thou might'st have known what maidens should not tell,
Although their hearts may nigh to bursting swell.
But thou art ill 'Tis idle to affect
The least reserve, when candour may dispel
The sickly doubt that leads thee to suspect
That I, who love so much, thy suit should still reject.”
XLIII.
As lamps half-mouldering dimly in a shrine,
In doubtful strifc, hcave flickering to and fro;
When newly trimmed with sudden radiance shine,
And all around their chcerful beamings throw,
Till shrine and saint with mellow brightness glow:
A new-born joy o'er George's features spread;
His care-worn
face much younger seemed to grow;
His sad desponding looks at once had fcd,
And from his sparkling eyes, a sudden light was shed.

·134
TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
XLIV.
“ And am I thus repaid for all my pains ?”
Exclaimed the youth,—“thrice happy, happy day!
New life is pulsing through my throbbing veins,
The sickness of my heart is fled away:
My soul is glad, and nature looks more gay!
Oh I let me ever, ever thus be blest;
To distant lands I shall not wish to stray;
In thy dear arms my fainting heart shall rest,
And all my griefs be hushed reposing on thy breast."
XIV.
Hey-day! what's here?" the Cottager exclaimed,
As, unperceived, he laid his hand on Kate;
She started back, and like a bird half-tamcd,
Would fly away to gain her former state;
But checked by love, she there resolved to wait.
Meantime the Cotter cast bis wondering eyes
From Kate to George, in doubt and self-debate;
Till in his heart he felt the father rise,
And pure unmingled joy o'ercame his first surprise.

·THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
135
XLVI.
My son! my son! and is it thus," he cried,
“ Thus sick on foot they send thee back to me? -
Our country's soldiers ought to be supplied
With better means their distant homes to scc,
Than those who rule have now conferred on thcc.
But never mind, thou shalt not go again
To risk thy life, whoc'er may disagree;
Let foolish France attack disordered Spain,
And quarrel as they list, thou shalt at home remain.”
XVII.
Aye! that he shall, my poor dear sickly boy !"
Ilis mother cricd, first bursting into tears ;
And then she laughed, o'crcome with sudden joy:
And this again was darkened o'er with fears
Lest George should dic, so sickly he appears.
“But no, no, no! thou wilt not dic," she cried.
“ Not yet, I hope," said Gcorge, " for many years"-
Then turning round, he looked on Kate and sighed,
And whispered in her ear-“if thou wilt be my bride.”

·136
TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
XLVIII.
Meantime the children capered with delight,
And clapped their hands, and scampered to and fro:
First one drew near to see that all was right,
Then back he ran, and placed them in a row,
To whisper in their ears—“'Tis George, I know !"
And then they clapped their little hands anew,
And shouted loud, their greater joy to show:
The youngest child, scarce knowing what to do,
First kissed the poor old dog, then clapped and shouted too.
XLIX.
The first strong feelings of surprise and joy
Subsided soon in settled calm delight;
And then they thought what means they'd best employ
To move the youth, whose sick and weakly plight
Madc all things seem a toil, however light.
First one proposed to fetch a horse and cart,
Another thought the horse alone was right;
“I'll walk," said George, and whispering Kate apart,
“I feel much stronger now, since you have cased my heart.”

·TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII. 137 L. Here, lean on me," the Cotter kindly said, “For I am strong, and well can bcar thy weight :" Gcorge took his arm, but turning round his head, With beaming cyes, he gently beckoned Katc, And said he wanted her to make all straight. The blushing girl was quickly by his side, Exulting most, they had not come too late ; “For if,” she said, and as she said it, sighed- “If there he'd lain all night exposed, he must have died." LI. Supported thus, they slowly wound along The nearest path, which swept the river's side ; Where gurgling waves sent forth their cvening-song In gentle tones across the glassy tide: Till on the banks 'rnid rustling reeds they died. The clear smooth strcam threw back the purple skies; So mirror-like the level waves did glide: Save here and there, where fish were seen to rise, And dimpling circles make while catching evening flics.

·138
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
LII.
The full round sun, just touched the distant hill,
His crimson face expanding, secmed to glow
With tenfold beauty, while he lingered still,
As if reluctant halting, moving slow;
Until by force compelled, he sunk below.
Majestic clouds had gathered round his head,
And when he went, their massive sides could show,
In many a form of deeply glowing red,
The glory of that light his parting beams had shed.
LIII.
With frequent stops the weary youth to rest,
They crept along till on the bridge they stood;
The sun's last beams were fading in the West,
And less distinct appeared the distant wood,
And rising mist obscured the dusky flood.
“Thank God!" said George, his dark cycs bright with tears,
“How oft of this I've thought ʼmid scenes of blood:
Just, just the same, as in my younger years,
Amid the quiet trecs, my native cot appears."

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·Wind
When near the porch the sickly youth they brought,
With new delight bis trembling bosom shook ;
For as they stood, the pleasing view they caught
Of grandam reading in that holy book,
From whence her joy-ber hope-her all she took.
A glimmering taper on the table shonc,
Which in the gathering twilight made her look
Like some old saint in monumental stone:
So calm, she seemed, and rapt, while thus with God alone.

·140
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
LV.
They entered in, and George before her came,
Whercat she raised her head in vaguc surprise ;
With vacant look she stared to hear her name,
Then, filled with doubt, she from her chair did risc
And gazed again, and then slıc rubbed her eyes.
“What! is it thou, my long, long wandering child ?”
She stammered forth at length with sobs and crics:
“Come near, my boy:" Gcorge came and gently smiled,
And then she laughed aloud hysterically wild.
LVI.
Meantime his mother bustled
up
and down,
And soon prepared the comfortable mcal;
With apron donned above ber Sunday gown,
She laid the cloth-placed knife and fork, and steel,
While Kate assisted with instinctive zeal.
The large brown loaf, cold meat, and homely pic,
Were not allowed to make a vain appeal ;
But one and all with serious looks did ply,
Industrious and intent themselves to gratify.

·TIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
141
LVII,
The supper done, they clustered round the fire,
Its warmth unneeded; but the cheerful blaze
Seemed so attractive as the flames rose higher,
That young and old could not refuse to gaze
And vent their joy in varying homely plırusc.
Thrice hallowed spot! more dear than splendid dome:
Well may we love thee, and well may we praise ;
For on his hearth, without a wish to roam
An English bosom beats with deepest love of home.
I.VIII.
Not oft forgetful of her thrifty rules,
The wife resolved for once to give a treat ;
And while they fixed the settle, chairs and stools,
She brought a bottle from its dark retreat:
A large stone jar it scemed, with dust replete;
From this she poured a liquor, dark, yet fine,
Then stirred the flames the spicy drink to heat;
A fragrant steam unfolded her design,
And soon, well-pleased, they saw the home-made elder-wine.

·142
TUIE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
LIX.
The cheerful group with siniling faces sat
And sipped their wine : too hot for drinking fast,
Indulging freely in their harmless chat;
While now and then fond looks the mother cast
On George, much bettered by his late repast.
His pleasant looks went cheerly to her hcart;
ller fears were gonc-her boy was come at last :
Hc would no inore from home and kindred
part,
And then with quivering joy the tears were seen to start.
LX.
Nay, do not weep," said George, with moistening eye
And faltering voice, " I shall not fight again ;
Lct those that list to fields of battle fly,
And seek for glory ’mid those heaps of slain
Which taint the air, unburied on the plain.
For me the charm can never more revive:
I woke to reason on the bed of pain,
And saw how States by peaceful arts may thrive,
Or sink in ruin when in maddening wars they strive.

·TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 143 LXI. “Oh! I have seen such sights of dcath and woe- Such havoc wild in city, camp and field; When roused to fury trampling on the foc, Men crushed their fellows who refused to yield Thosc sacred rights by Freedom's God revealed. Down fall the virtues-down thc fcclings fall, With fiendish joy their brutal power they wield: Wife-daughter-child--destruction scizes all, And man is man no more-his milk is turned to gall. LXII. My very soul now sickens as I think Of those sad scenes that passed before minc eye; When, man by man, I saw my comrades sink, With haggard look and wild heart-rending cry, To live in pain, or else unpiticd die. I too had died, my mother, were it not That thou hadst sent this precious book to lie Beside my heart,-a providential spot ; For sce! its well-bound back still holds the fatal shot."

·144
THE COTTAGER'S SABBATII.
LXIII.
Thanks, thanks to Him who ordereth all things well !"
The mother sobbed, half frantic with delight:
She laughed-she cried—and on his neck shc fell,
“I knew,” she said, “that God would make it right,
For parents' prayers are precious in his sight!"
And then again she clasped him to wer breast,
And sobbed aloud, until exhausted quite;
ller tear-filled cye upon her son did rest
With love so deep, that words its fulness nc'er exprcst.
LXIV.
Nor could the children, when their mother wept,
TIelp weeping too, although they knew not why;
And as for Kate, although shc silent kept
And hung her head where none her face could spy,
Yet joyous drops fell streaming from her cyc.
A single tcar stolc down the Cotter's cheek,
In which perchance far greater strength might lic
Than outward signs, however strong, could speak,
For his emotions deep made all expressions weak.

·TIIE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
145
LXV.
Their feelings calmed, thc Cotter rose and said,
“ Now let us pray !" and kneeling down they prayed
That God would still His saving mercies spread
About their path, and check them if they strayed,
Or felt their hearts by sinful feelings swayed.
For all IIis gifts they might attempt to raise
Their feeble songs, in grateful terms arrayed,
But how could words declare his gracious ways?
With reverence they adored, and silence spoke his praisc.
M

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·NOTES. Note 1. Page 28. " And Rome's imperial pride, with one gigantic blour." When we read the history, or view the relics of those religions buildings which were overthrown by the rude hands of our early reformers, a feeling of regret will sometimes steal over us, that so many splendid specimens of art should have been thus destroyed; and yet, on more mature reflection, we may see the policy of their proceedings, as it would have been almost impossible to have changed the system of worship, if the temples had been allowed to stand. The force of habit and the influence of the senses were both powerfully in favour of the old system, and it required a total disruption of its external symbols, before the more refined truths of the rcformed religion could be brought to take root in the minds of the people. The lovers of art may have cause to regret the overthrow of abbeys and churches, but the lovers of truth and freedom should rejoice, that with them was destroyed the most pernicious slavery that ever disgraced the world. NOTE 2. Page 31. “ Despite large boards, with prohibitions vile." The practice of stopping the foot-paths across the fields has been carried to a most vexatious cxtent, in many rural districts, without any regard to the convenience of the public, or the right cstablished by long usage. In many cases, where the neighbouring squires have been of congenial views, they have unscrupulously exercised their power,rcmoved the stile,-fenced up the place with thorns, and stuck up a large board, with the notice, that “This road is stopped by order of the magistrates." If you enquire, who arc the magistrates, the answer is the very men through whose property the road runs, and who have thus perverted their magisterial appointments to serve their own personal interests. One case I remember particularly well, when residing in the country, where the stoppage of an old foot-path occasioned a walk of more than ·148 NOTES. three miles on the dusty turnpike to get to a friend's house, instead of half a mile through some beautifully wooded fields. The first time I went that way, after the stile was removed, I found a grey-headed man, upwards of eighty years old, standing against the place, with an expression of mingled grief and anger, I shall not soon forget :-"I have passed this way," said he, "for more than seventy years, and the first time was with my grandfather, who had used it since he was a child--and it is very hard to be shut out now."-"It is," I replied, removing the thorns to let him pass, “but you will not need it much longer." He faltered slowly on his way, and the path still remains closed. Note 3. Page 65. “ The Stranger's Peuc." I once passed a Sunday at a very rural village on the borders of Wales, and on going into the Church, (one of the most ancient I ever saw,) was greatly delighted to see a large pew fitted up with cushions and books, on which was painted “The Stranger's Pew." Being a stranger, the door was opened for me as a matter of course ; and while waiting for the commencement of the service, I couli not help contrasting this homely charity with the cold politeness with which I had been allowed to stand in the aisles of some of our stately metropolitan churches, and wishing that they wow imitate these rustic Christians in their kindness to the stranger. NOTE 4. Page 122. “Whose famished looks declare, he died for want of bread." In the neighbourhood of Codner Castle, Derbyshire, there is a story prevalent, that the last of the Zouch family, formerly owners of very extensive domains in that part of the country, died of want, as related in the text. Note 5. Page 123. The titles of the two tales are omitted, to avoid breaking up the regularity of appearance in the body of the work. The first is called "THE DESOLATE Hall," and the second “TAE CHILD AND THE LAMB." London: Printed by STEWART and MURRAY, Old Bailey...)

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