Page images
PDF
EPUB

In order to make hafte to fell and eat;
For there is certainly a charm in meat;
And in rebellious tones will ftomachs speak,
That have not tafted victuals for a week.

But yet there are a mercenary crew
Who value fome no more than an old fhoe,
Provided for their daubs they get a fale;
Juft like the man-but stay-Ï'll tell the tale. }
A fellow in a market town,

Moft mufical, cry'd razors up and down,
And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence;
Which certainly feem'd wondrous cheap,
And, for the money, quite a heap,

As ev'ry man would buy, with cash and fenfe.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard:
Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a broad black beard,
That feem'd a fhoe-brush stuck beneath his nofe,
With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid,
And proudly to himself, in whispers, faid,
"This rafcal ftole the razors, I fuppofe.

"No matter if the fellow be a knave,
"Provided that the razors Shave;

"It certainly will be a monftrous prize."
So home the clown with his good fortune went,
Smiling, in heart and foul content,

And quickly foap'd himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lather'd from a difh or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Juft like a hedger cutting furze :

'Twas a vile razor!-then the reft he try'd-
All were impoftors-" Ah," Hodge figh'd,

"I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse!" In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces,

He cut, and dug, and winc'd, and ftamp'd, and fwore, Brought blood, and danc'd, blafphem'd, and made wry

faces,

And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er.

His muzzle form'd of oppofition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff:
So kept it-laughing at the fteel and fuds:

Hodge, in a paffion, ftretch'd his angry jaws,
Vowing the direft vengeance, with clench'd claws,
On the rank cheat that fold the goods.
"Razors! a vile confounded dog,
"Not fit to fcrape a hog!"

Hodge fought the fellow-found him-and begun:
"P'rhaps, Mafter Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,
"That People flay themselves out of their lives:
"You rafcal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
"Giving my crying whifkers here a fcrubbing,
"With razors juft like oyfter-knives.
"Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave,
"To cry up razors that can't have."

"Friend," quoth the razor-man, " I'm not a knave:
"As for the razors you have bought,

[blocks in formation]

"Not think they'd fhave!" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring

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 fmile-" to fell."

[graphic]

THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

ELEGY.

Written in a Country Church-Yard.

BY MR. GRAY.

HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

TH

The lowing herd winds flowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn ftillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch as, wand'ring near her fecret bow'r,
Moleft her ancient folitary reign.

Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet fleep.

The breezy call of incenfe-breathing morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the ftraw-built shed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more fhall rouse them from their lowly bed,

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her ev'ning care;
No children run to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envy'd kiss to share.

Oft did the harveft to their fickle yield,

Their furrow oft the ftubborn glebe has broke ;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy ftroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and deftiny obfcure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a difdainful fmile,
The fhort and fimple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour;

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud! impute to these the fault,
If Mem❜ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aifle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.

Can ftory'd urn, or animated buft,

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft,

Or Flatt'ry foothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celeftial fire;
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstacy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the fpoils of time, did ne'er unroll;

Chill Penury reprefs'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the foul.

Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,
And wafte its sweetness on the defert air.

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft,
Some Cromwell, guiltlefs of his country's blood..

Th' applause of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To fcatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,

And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

[ocr errors]

Their lot forbade; nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbade to wade through flaughter to a throne,
And fhut the gates of mercy on mankind;
The struggling pangs of confcious Truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame,
Or heap the fhrine of Luxury and Pride

With incenfe kindled at the Mufe's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their fober wishes never learnt to stray;
Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet e'en these bones from infult to protect,
Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless fculpture deck'd,
Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.

Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy fupply,
And many a holy text around the ftrews,
That teach the ruftic moralift to die.
For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor caft one longing ling'ring look behind?
On fome fond breast the parting foul relies,
Some pious drops the clofing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Doft in those lines their artless tales relate,
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit fhall inquire thy fate,

Haply fome hoary-headed fwain may say,

46

"Oft have we feen him, at the peep of dawn, Brufhing with hafty steps the dews away, "To meet the fun upon the upland lawn. "There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, "That wreathes its old fantastic root fo high, "His liftlefs length at noontide would he ftretch, "And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

« PreviousContinue »