The distant plough slow moving, and beside
His labouring team, that swerved not from the track,
The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy!

Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain
Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er,
Conducts the eye along his sinuous course,
Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank,
Stand, never overlook'd, our favourite elms,
That screen the herdsman's solitary hut;
While far beyond, and overthwart the stream,
That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,
The sloping land recedes into the clouds,
Displaying on its varied side the grace

Of hedge-row beauties numberless,-square tower,
Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells
Just undulates upon the listening ear,
Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote.
Scenes must be beautiful, which daily view'd
Please daily, and whose novelty survives
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years:
Praise justly due to those that I describe.

A SKETCH.

Cowper.

THE rush-thatch'd cottage on the purple moor,
Where ruddy children frolic round the door;
The moss-grown antlers of the aged oak,
The shaggy locks that fringe the colt unbroke;
The bearded goat, with nimble eyes that glare
Through the long tissue of his hoary hair,

As with quick foot he climbs some ruin'd wall,
And crops the ivy which prevents its fall;
With rural charms the tranquil mind delight,
And form a picture to th' admiring sight.

THE EVENING WALK.

Darwin.

But see, the setting sun

Puts on a milder countenance, and skirts
The undulated clouds, that cross his way
With glory visible. His axle cools,

And his broad disk, though fervent, not intense,
Foretells the near approach of matron Night.
Ye fair, retreat! Your drooping flowers need
Wholesome refreshment. Down the hedge-row path
We hasten home, and only slack our speed
To gaze a moment at th' accustom'd gap,
That all so unexpectedly presents

The clear cerulean prospect down the vale.
Dispersed along the bottom flocks and herds,
Hay-ricks and cottages, beside a stream,
That silverly meanders here and there;
And higher up corn-fields, and pastures, hops,
And waving woods, and tufts, and lonely oaks,
Thick interspersed as Nature best was pleased.

Happy the man, who truly loves his home, And never wanders farther from his door

Than we have gone to-day; who feels his heart

Still drawing homeward, and delights, like us,

Once more to rest his foot on his own threshold.-Hurdis.