To prevent these afflicting consequences, I have yet one remedy to propose. Let the Serpentine River be forthwith commuted into punch, St. James's Canal be manufactured into Welch ale, for the army and navy (those blessed bulwarks of the bottle) to tipple gratuitously. In the present depressed state too of agriculture, when every acre is of value, let the Lincolnshire fens be qualified with brandy, and my life on it they will speedily be drained. By these means alone can England again boast of her juicy aboriginals, and rear a hard-knuckled progeny of fists that may floor even her stoutest opponents.

THE VILLAGE GIRL.

LONG years have pass'd, yet still she brightens o'er
My memory, like a thing of light; her name
Still lingers on my lip; and when in hour
Of solitude I think of by-gone times,

Her form comes gliding past. Yes, time rolls on
And Age and Want with mildewy breath distain
The mirror of the past; but her dear image,
Reflected, as the willow in the brook,

Still shines eternally bright.

You see her grave

Now glistening in the sun-shine, like the grace
Of heaven in penitent hearts; 'tis there she sleeps,
Who once was young, was beautiful-the pride

Of Carisbroke, the May-day of its year.

Come, sit ye down, and while the twilight sun
Yet sparkles in the horizon, I will tell

Her melancholy tale, and from the depths

Of memory lure its past imaginings.

She lived in yon white cottage, that still smiles
In native cheerfulness around, as if

Ellen were yet alive.

Her form was light

As early blush of dawn; and in her eye,

Blue as the deep blue sky when clouds are gone,

Sat mildest contemplation: she was one,

Form'd to be seen and loved-a thing that gleam'd Like fairy vision o'er the soul, and bloom'd

In immortality of memory.

Kind was she, and would weep if but a bird Sunk 'neath the winter's frost or summer's heat; And mid her wanderings if a worm she bruised, Or crush'd a helpless insect, tears would flow From very gentleness; for in her soul

Pity, as in a shrine, dwelt sanctified,

And look'd forth from the windows of the mind,
Dissolving, as the sun dissolves the dew,

Each heart its blessed light shone down upon.

But she is gone-her youth hath pass'd away

And through the church-way path, where once she loved At evening hour to stray, no more she roams,

Counting the graves with wandering brain, as if

One still was wanting, and that one was hers.
Forgive me if, comparing what she was

With what she is, the rebel tear will flow.--
Yes! spite of all the pride of fortitude

To check its course, sorrow must have its way,
Or the full heart will burst.

Years roll'd on years,

And Ellen grew a woman.

On an eve

Of daintiest summer as she wander'd through

Yon hazel copse, a stranger, deck'd in war's
Bright panoply, saw, visited, and loved.

He was a soldier-but his delicate form,

Pregnant with health and strength, and sorrow-free,
Yet bore the impress of maidenhood in arms.
Oft in the summer eve he loved to steal
From artful sounds of martial minstrelsy,

To native music from the tell-tale brook,
And when the wine went round, and mirth and glee
Lit up each soldier's heart, he fled the scene

Of wit, to come and woo his forest nymph.

Oh! then, what spring was theirs-what ecstacy!
Both young, and both so innocent: their hearts
Like gay parterres, blossom'd with summer flow'rs
Of hope, and twined a bower beneath whose shade
Love sat enthroned; where'er they wander'd, he
Moved as a Sylph beside them, pointing still
The way to holiest raptures; copse and dale,
The deep-sunk glen, the giddy water-fall

Flashing with thousand lights upon

the eye,

Like thought upon the mind-the woodland echo,
That trills her notes of female melody,

And guards, as miser doth his gold, each sound
Her fancy hears; the melancholy breeze,

Whispering, like voice of friend we once have loved,
The dirge of parted day-light—the fix'd stars,
Heaven's sleepless centinels-the pilgrim moon,
Journeying in thoughtful piety as one
Left desolate upon a foreign strand,
Beauty her sole protection-gave a pulse
Of life to their young hearts, an imaging
Of heav'n; and Love in guardian kindliness
Shone, like the fairy spirit of the scene.

Alas! alas! that two such hearts must droop