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How parson on his tithes was bent,
And landlord oft distrain'd for rent.
Thus do they talk, till in the sky
The pale-eyed moon is mounted high,
And from the alehouse drunken Ned
Has reel'd-then hasten all to bed.
The mistress sees that lazy Kate
The happing coal on kitchen grate
Has laid-while master goes throughout,
Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out,

The candles safe, the hearths all clear,

And nought from thieves or fire to fear,
Then both to bed together creep,
And join the general troop of sleep.

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FROM yonder wood mark blue-eyed Eve proceed :
First thro' the deep and warm and secret glens,
Through the pale glimmering privet-scented lane,
And through those alders by the river-side:
Now the soft dust impedes her, which the sheep
Have hollow'd out beneath their hawthorn shade.
But ah! look yonder! see a misty tide
Rise up the hill, lay low the frowning grove,
Enwrap the gay white mansion, sap its sides
Until they sink and melt away like chalk;
Now it comes down against our village-tower,
Covers its base, floats o'er its arches, tears

The clinging ivy from the battlements, Mingles in broad embrace the obdurate stone, (All one vast ocean), and goes swelling on

In slow and silent, dim and deepening waves.

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THE JACKDAW.

THERE is a bird, who, by his coat,
And by the hoarseness of his note,

Might be supposed a crow;

A great frequenter of the church,
Where, bishop-like, he finds a perch,
And dormitory too.

Above the steeple shines a plate,
That turns and turns, to indicate

From what point blows the weather,
Look up your brains begin to swim,
"Tis in the clouds-that pleases him,
He chooses it the rather.

Fond of the speculative height,
Thither he wings his airy flight,
And thence securely sees

The bustle and the raree-show
That occupy mankind below,
Secure, and at his ease.

You think, no doubt, he sits and muses
On future broken bones and bruises,

If he should chance to fall.
No; not a single thought like that
Employs his philosophic pate,
Or troubles it at all.

He see, that this great roundabout,
The world, with all its motley rout,
Church, army, physic, law,

Its customs and its businesses

Is no concern at all of his,

And says--what says he?-Caw.

Thrice-happy bird! I too have seen
Much of the vanities of men;
And sick of having seen 'em,
Would cheerfully these limbs resign
For such a pair of wings as thine,
And such a head between 'em.

W. Cowper.

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THE THRUSH.

'LL pay my rent in music,' said a thrush, Who took his lodging 'neath my eaves in spring,

Where the thick foliage droop'd. And well he kept

His simple contract. Not for quarter-day

He coldly waited, nor a draft required

To stir his memory, nor my patience tried
With changeful currencies, but every morn
Brought me good notes at par, and broke my
sleep

With his sweet-ringing coin.

Sometimes a song,

All wildly trilling through his dulcet pipes,
Falling, and caught again, and still prolong'd,-
Betrayed in what green nook the warbler sat,

Each feather quivering with excess of joy,
While from his opening beak and brightening eye
There seem'd to breathe a cadence, This is meant

For your especial benefit.' The lay

With overruling shrillness more than once.

Did summon me to lay my book aside

And wait its close; nor was that pause a loss,

But seemed to tune and shape the inward ear
To wisdom's key-tone.

Then I had a share

In softer songs, that cheer'd his brooding mate, Who, in the patience of good hope, did keep Her lengthen'd vigil; and the voice of love That flow'd so fondly from his trusting soul Made glad mine own.

Then, too, there was a strain From blended throats, that to their callow young Breathed tenderness untold; and the weak chirp Of new-born choristers, so deftly train'd Each in the sweet way that he ought to go, Mix'd with that breath of household charities Which makes the spirit strong.

And so I felt

My rent was fully paid, and thought myself
Quite fortunate, in these our times, to find
Such honest tenant.

But when autumn bade

The northern birds to spread their parting wing,
And that small house was vacant, and o'er hedge
And russet grove and forest hoar with years

The hush of silence settled, I grew sad
To miss my kind musicians, and was fain
To patronize with a more fervent zeal
Such fireside music as makes winter short,
And storms unheard.

Yet leave within our hearts Dear melodists, the spirit of your praise, Until ye come again; and the brown nest, That now its downy lining to the winds

H

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