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 Her form comes gliding past. Yes, time rolls on Still shines eternally bright. You see her grave Now glistening in the sun-shine, like the grace Of Carisbroke, the May-day of its year. Come, sit ye down, and while the twilight sun Her melancholy tale, and from the depths Of memory lure its past imaginings. She lived in yon white cottage, that still smiles 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, 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. With what she is, the rebel tear will flow.-- To check its course, sorrow must have its way, 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 He was a soldier-but his delicate form, Pregnant with health and strength, and sorrow-free, To native music from the tell-tale brook, Of wit, to come and woo his forest nymph. Oh! then, what spring was theirs-what ecstacy! Flashing with thousand lights upon the eye, Like thought upon the mind-the woodland echo, And guards, as miser doth his gold, each sound Whispering, like voice of friend we once have loved, Alas! alas! that two such hearts must droop |