Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers;

And pansies rayed, and freaked and mottled pinks, Grow among balm and rosemary and rue.

There honeysuckles flaunt and roses blow

Almost uncultured; some with dark green leaves
Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white;
Others, like velvet robes of regal state
Of richest crimson; while, in thorny moss
Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely wear
The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek.
With fond regret I recollect e'en now
In spring and summer, what delight I felt
Among these cottage gardens, and how much
Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush
By village housewife or her ruddy maid,
Were welcome to me, soon and simply pleased.
An early worshipper at Nature's shrine,

I loved her rudest scenes,

warrens and heaths,

And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows,
And hedge-rows bordering unfrequented lanes,
Bowered with wild roses and the clasping woodbine.
Charlotte Smith.

Beccles.

BECCLES.

NORTH rode Orlando by a river's side,

FORTH

Inland and winding, smooth, and full and wide, That rolled majestic on, in one soft flowing tide; The bottom gravel, flowery were the banks, Tall willows, waving in their broken ranks; The road, now near, now distant, winding led By lovely meadows which the waters fed; He passed the wayside inn, the village spire, Nor stopped to gaze, to question, or admire; On either side the rural mansions stood, With hedge-row trees, and hills high-crowned with wood, And many a devious stream that reached the nobler flood. George Crabbe.

A

Bedfont.

THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT.

LAS! that breathing Vanity should go

Where Pride is buried, - like its very ghost,

Uprisen from the naked bones below,

In novel flesh, clad in the silent boast

Of gaudy silk that flutters to and fro,

Shedding its chilling superstition most
On young and ignorant natures, as it wont
To haunt the peaceful churchyard of Bedfont!

Each Sabbath morning, at the hour of prayer,
Behold two maidens, up the quiet green
Shining, far distant, in the summer air

That flaunts their dewy robes and breathes between
Their downy plumes, sailing as if they were
Two far-off ships, - until they brush between
The churchyard's humble walls, and watch and wait
On either side of the wide opened gate.

And there they stand with haughty necks before
God's holy house, that points towards the skies -
Frowning reluctant duty from the poor,

And tempting homage from unthoughtful eyes:
And Youth looks lingering from the temple door,
Breathing its wishes in unfruitful sighs,
With pouting lips, — forgetful of the grace,
Of health, and smiles, on the heart-conscious face;

Because that Wealth, which has no bliss beside,
May wear the happiness of rich attire;
And those two sisters, in their silly pride,

May change the soul's warm glances for the fire
Of lifeless diamonds; - and for health denied,
With art, that blushes at itself, inspire

Their languid cheeks, and flourish in a glory

--

That has no life in life, nor after-story.

The aged priest goes shaking his gray hair
In meekest censuring, and turns his eye
Earthward in grief, and heavenward in prayer,

And sighs, and clasps his hands, and passes by.
Good-hearted man! what sullen soul would wear
Thy sorrow for a garb, and constantly
Put on thy censure, that might win the praise
Of one so gray in goodness and in days?

Also the solemn clerk partakes the shame
Of this ungodly shine of human pride,
And sadly blends his reverence and blame
In one grave bow, and passes with a stride
Impatient: many a red-hooded dame

Turns her pained head, but not her glance, aside From wanton dress, and marvels o'er again,

That heaven hath no wet judgments for the vain.

*

*

*

*

*

The aged priest goes on each Sabbath morn,
But shakes not sorrow under his gray hair;
The solemn clerk goes lavendered and shorn,

Nor stoops his back to the ungodly pair; And ancient lips that puckered up in scorn, Go smoothly breathing to the house of prayer; And in the garden-plot, from day to day, The lily blooms its long white life away.

And where two haughty maidens used to be,

In pride of plume, where plumy Death had trod, Trailing their gorgeous velvets wantonly,

Most unmeet pall, over the holy sod; There, gentle stranger, thou may'st only see Two sombre Peacocks. Age, with sapient nod Marking the spot, still tarries to declare

How they once lived, and wherefore they are there. Thomas Hood.

W

Belvoir Castle.

BELVOIR CASTLE.

HEN native Britons British lands possessed,

Their glory freedom, and their blessing rest,
A powerful chief this lofty seat surveyed,
And here his mansion's strong foundation laid:
In his own ground the massy stone he sought,
From his own woods the rugged timbers brought;
Rudeness and greatness in his work combined,
An humble taste with an aspiring mind.

His herds the vale, his flocks the hills, o'erspread;
Warriors and vassals at his table fed;
Sons, kindred, servants, waited on his will,
And hailed his mansion on the mighty hill.

In a new age a Saxon lord appeared,
And on the lofty base his dwelling reared:

Then first the grand but threatening form was known,
And to the subject vale a castle shown,

Where strength alone appeared,

the gloomy wall