The wrinkled, blear-eyed, good old granny, In this same cot, illumed by many a cranny, Had finish'd apple dumplings for her pot:

In tempting row the naked dumplings lay, When lo! the monarch, in his usual way, Like lightning spoke, "What's this? what's this? what, what?

Then taking up a dumpling in his hand,
His eyes with admiration did expand;

And oft did majesty the dumpling grapple: "'Tis monstrous, monstrous hard, indeed! he cried, "What makes it, pray, so hard? The dame replied, Low curtsying, "Please your majesty, the apple.”"

"Very astonishing indeed! strange thing!"
(Turning the dumpling round) rejoined the king.
""Tis most extraordinary, then, all this is—
It beats Pinette's conjuring all to pieces :
Strange I should never of a dumpling dream!
But, goody, tell me where, where, where's the seam ?

"Sir, there's no seam," quoth she; "I never knew That folks did apple dumplings sew."

"No!" cried the staring monarch, with a grin ;

66

'How, how the devil got the apple in?

John Walcot, 1738-1819.

DR. JOHNSON'S STYLE.

I own I like not Johnson's turgid style,
That gives an inch the importance of a mile,
Casts of manure a wagon-load around,
To raise a simple daisy from the ground;
Uplifts the club of Hercules-for what?
To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat;
Creates a whirlwind from the earth, to draw
A goose's feather or exalt a straw;

Sets wheels on wheels in motion-such a clatter
To force up one poor nipperkin of water;

Bids ocean labor with tremendous roar,
To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore;
Alike in every theme his pompous art,
Heaven's awful thunder or a rumbling cart!
John Wolcot.

THE RAZOR-SELLER.

"FRIEND," quoth the razor-man, "I'm no knave: As for the razors you have bought,

Upon my word, I never thought

That they would shave."

'Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wondering

eyes,

And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;

"What were they made for, then, you dog?" he cries. "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile-" to sell.”

MAY DAY.

John Wolcot

THE daises peep from every field,
And violets sweet their odor yield;
The purple blossom paints the thorn,
And streams reflect the blush of morn.
Then lads and lasses, all be gay,
For this is nature's holiday.

Let lusty Labor drop his flail,
Nor woodman's hook a tree assail;
The ox shall cease his neck to bow,
And Clodden yield to rest the plough.
Then Lads, etc.

Behold the lark in ether float,

While rapture swells the liquid note!
What warbles he, with merry cheer?
"Let Love and Pleasure rule the year!"

Then lads, etc.

John Wolcot.

EPIGRAM ON SLEEP.

COME, gentle sleep! attend thy votary's prayer,
And, though death's image, to my couch repair;
How sweet, though lifeless, yet with life to lie,
And, without dying, O how sweet to die!

John Wolcot.

A BEAUTIFUL CHILD.

O! HAST thou mark'd the summer's budded rose, When 'mid the veiling moss its crimson glows? So bloom'd the beauty of that fairy form, So her dark locks with golden tinges warm, Play'd round the timid curve of that white neck, And sweetly shaded half her blushing cheek. Anna Seward, 1747–1809.

SONG.

THE season comes when first we met,
But you return no more;
Why cannot I the days forget,

Which time can ne'er restore?
O days too sweet, too bright to last,
Are you indeed for ever past?

The fleeting shadows of delight,
In memory I trace;

In fancy stop their rapid flight,
And all the past replace:

But, ah! I wake to endless woes,
And tears the fading visions close!

.Mrs. Anne Hunter, 1742-1821.

THE LOT OF THOUSANDS.

WHEN hope lies dead within the heart,
By secret sorrow close concealed,
We shrink lest looks or words impart
What must not be revealed.

Tis hard to smile when one would weep;
To speak when one would silent be;
To wake when one would wish to sleep,
And wake to agony.

Yet such the lot by thousands cast
Who wander in this world of care,
And bend beneath the bitter blast,
To save them from despair.

But Nature waits her guests to greet,
Where disappointment cannot come
And time guides with unerring feet
The weary wanderers home.

Mrs. Anne Hunter, 1742-1821.

MARY OF CASTLE-CARY.

Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing,
Saw ye my true love down on yon lea—
Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming,
Sought she the burnie where flowers the haw-tree;
Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white,
Dark is the blue of her soft rolling e'e;

Red, red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses.
Where could my wee thing wander frae me?
Hector Macneill, 1746-1818.

"COME UNTO ME."

COME, said Jesus' sacred voice

Come and make my paths your choice!
I will guide you to your home-

Weary pilgrim, hither come!

Thou who, houseless, sole, forlorn,

Long hast borne the proud world's scorn,
Long hast roam'd the barren waste,
Weary pilgrim, hither haste!

Ye who, toss'd on beds of pain,
Seek for ease, but seek in vain-
Ye whose swollen and sleepless eyes
Watch to see the morning rise—

Ye by fiercer anguish torn,

In strong remorse for guilt who mourn,
Here repose your heavy care-

A wounded spirit who can bear!

Sinner, come! for here is found
Balm that flows from every wound-
Peace, that ever shall endure-
Rest eternal, sacred, sure.

Anna L. Barbauld, 1743-1825.

ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

I READ God's awful name emblazon'd high,
With golden letters on th' illumin'd sky;
Nor less the mystic characters I see,
Wrought in each flower, inscribed on ev'ry tree;
In ev'ry leaf that trembles to the breeze

I hear the voice of God among the trees.
With thee in shady solitudes I walk,
With thee in busy crowded cities talk;
In every creature own thy forming power,
In each event thy providence adore.

Anna L. Barbauld.

DIRGE.

PURE spirit! O where art thou now?
O whisper to my soul !

O let some soothing thought of thee,
This bitter grief control!

"Tis not for thee the tears I shed, Thy sufferings now art o'er; The sea is calm, the tempest past,

On that eternal shore.

No more the storms that wreck thy peace,
Shall tear that gentle breast;

Nor Summer's rage, nor Winter's cold,
Thy poor, poor frame molest.