But while from Sacred Writ his briefs he'll take,
None can his ergos or premises shake;
And if from Blackstone precedents he draw,
He right o'erlooks not in the search for law.
It ne'er was his the injured to oppress
He aims to soothe, not magnify distress.
Even in defeat he's calm-in triumph wise,.
Guarded from error, rashness, or surprize.
His talents never graced a. tyrant's cause,
Nor tortured, where they should uphold, the laws.
Thus may he good old age in comfort see,
And hale in health, a HALE in station be.
And should the ermin'd cloak his shoulders grace,
Be it not earned by pandering for place!
So when Death's mandamus shall warn him hence,
At the great Bar this shall be his defence:-
"In Courts Below I've practised mercy, love;
Nor left unconn'd the rules of Courts Above!"
Then with the few acquitted and forgiven,
He may plead issue to the Judge in Heaven.
Enter we now the Farmer's homestead nigh;
See each utensil in its place laid by..
Mark the white dresser, with its copper pans,
The wooden noggins, and the pewter cans..
Nor fail to notice how the trenchers stand
In goodly rows, well cleaned with river sand.
Above the fire, where pots were lately hung,
The hooks are on the hangers careless swung;
The furze no longer makes a crackling blaze,
But the white greeshough recent smoke displays.
Step to the parlour; in his wicker chair,
The father of the farm reclineth there-
His children vying round him which shall show
Who most to ease and comfort him doth know.
The labour of the day is past and done;
Anxiety is sinking with the sun;
The household gather by a well-kept rule,
Like formal urchins in the Village School;
Solemn their silence while the good man reads
A chapter from the Patriarchs and their deeds;
Then all unite to chaunt a holy air,
And the day ends, as it began, with prayer.
His eldest son has reached a foreign shore,
To seek a home, and thence return no more;
His youngest dreams at night his thoughts by day,
That he too would be happier far
away-
Fond visions that allure but to betray.
One care disturbs the old man's rest alone:
His hard-earn'd vote he cannot call his own;
A haughty landlord claims it as his right,
And conscience is compelled to yield to might.
Nor less in worth the partner of his care,
Though frugal, she is still content to share.
With unaffected dignity and grace,
She fills the arm-chair in its fireside place;
Hands round the tea with all a housewife's ease
Tries every art her visitors to please;
Tells o'er some lively tale or lucky hit,
(For the good lady is expert in wit,)
Or silent listens to each prattling friend,
Much too polite their self-love to offend.
But should dark scandal raise its direful head,
To wound the living, or assail the dead,
Some soothing balin the dame will swift apply;
She scorns a slander, and abhors a lie.
The beggar never leaves the farmer's door
Without addition to his wallet's store;
And oft at second dinner you may findi
Around his board the impotent and blind.
Thus blest and blessing live the happy pair,
Their several duties all their aim and care.
Still may their virtues with their wealth increase,
In life contented, may their end be peace.
That yellow-fronted house, where swings the Bell
Above its sign-board, was our first hotel;
Its owner like an alderman appeared,
Bluff and capacious, with a great red beard.
He knew my lord—the major was his friend;
And with the Earl he'd oft his evenings spend ;
He'd once conversed too with our only Duke,
(But then his Grace had given him a rebuke!)
His vacant yard the flaming sign belied—
"Horses and Coaches to be had inside!"
One open chariot, one close-covered chaise,
(Scarce above censure, and below all praise,)
A dingy cab, and shattered outside car,
With oft-spliced shafts-his whole possessions are;
Three wretched garrons making up his stud,
That show their bones, and often show their blood.
Still few upon the road were liked as well
As the kind landlord of the Golden Bell;
Few better tempered, or of wider belt,
Within the hamlet's happy precincts dwelt.
He loved to talk, but calumny ne'er hung
On Boniface's open, honest tongue;
In this he followed not some greater folk,
Who others' business always love to poke.
Beneath the height on yonder mountain road,
In rustic whiteness stands his neat abode ;
Where tutored flowers around the door entwine,
Mingling the ivy, rose, and eglantine.
The veteran at his cottage door can stand,
And at one view encompass all his land,—
A garden taught each season's fruits to yield,
His whole delight,-his whole domain a field,
Content one year with yellow grain to groan,
With roots the next whose worth so well is known.
Retired the Captain runs his steady race,
Nor jealous he of pension or of place;
Rich, unassuming, proud o'er sordid pride,
Known and beloved by all the country side;
Of gentle birth, in bearing like a child,
His heart full happy, seen whene'er he smiled.
The world he roved, and then to fix for life,
Came to his native land, and took a wife;
Mated like doves, in union sweet they dwell,—
Each joy and sorrow to each other tell;
He has no wish, she no desire to roam-
They find no sweeter pleasure than at home.
A sportsman he, and yet the feathered train
With unmolested boldness shell his grain;
Uninjured there at early dawn they flock,
Nor fear the detonator's rusty lock,
And at th' old spaniel chirp defiance loud,
While 'midst his fruit they revel in a crowd.
When winter o'er the hills his white head shows,
Replete with torrents, rains, and drifting snows,
The quiet pair in sweet seclusion sit;
He something finds to read, and she to knit.
Pleased, o'er the bowl, when darkly falls the eve,
A friend with homely welcome to receive,
He tells of distant climes, and smokes his Dutch, (For he has travelled far, and suffered much); And if perchance his tale should stretch too long, He calls for music, and invites to song;
Old Britain's glory known his ruling toast,
Each sings the theme that best will please the host.
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