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is still young; it exhibits neither wrinkles nor decay; whether radiant with smiles or awfully beautiful in frowns, it is still enchanting, and not less fraught with spiritual than material attractions, if we do but know how to moralize upon her features and presentments. To consider, for instance, this balmy air which is gently waving the branches of a chestnut-tree before my eyes-what a mysterious element it is! Powerful enough to shipwreck navies, and tear up the deepgrappling oak, yet so subtle as to be invisible, and so delicate as not to wound the naked eye. Naturally imperishable, who can imagine all the various purposes to which the identical portion may have been applied, which I am at this instant inhaling? Perhaps at the creation it served to modulate into words the sublime command, "Let there be light," when the blazing sun rolled itself together, and upheaved from chaos-perhaps impelled by the jealous Zephyrus, it urged Apollo's quoit against the blue-veined forehead of Hyacinthus ;-it may perchance have filled the silken sails of Cleopatra's vessel, as she floated down the Cydnus; or have burst from the mouth of Cicero in the indignant exordium-" Quousque tandem abutere, Catilina, patientiâ nostrâ?" or his still more abrupt exclamation, "Abiit-evasit— excessit―erupit !" It may have given breath to utter the noble dying speeches of Socrates in his prison, of Sir Philip Sidney on the plains of Zutphen, of Russell at the block. But the same inexhaustible element which would supply endless matter for my reflections, may perhaps pass into the mouth of the reader, and
be vented in a peevish-" Psha! somewhat too much of this," and I shall therefore hasten to take my leave of him, claiming some share of credit, that when so ample a range was before me, my speculations should so soon, like the witches in Macbeth, have "made themselves air, into which they vanished."
THE FIRST OF MARCH.
THE bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud,
The perfume and the bloom that shall decorate the flower,
How awful is the thought of the wonders under ground,
The Summer's in her ark, and this sunny-pinion'd day
Thou hast fann'd the sleeping Earth till her dreams are all of flowers,
And the waters look in mirth for their overhanging bowers; The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves,
And the very skies to glisten in the hope of summer eves.
Thy vivifying spell has been felt beneath the wave,
By the dormouse in its cell, and the mole within its cave;
The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the hills,
The Milkmaid and the Banker.
A MILKMAID with a very pretty face,
Had a black Cow, the ugliest in the place,
A beast as dangerous, too, as she was frightful,
And so confirm'd a truant, that she bounded
It should have been of birch, or thorn, or holly,)
Which had, as usual, slipp'd its anchor,
When on the road she met a certain Banker,
Who stopp'd to give his eyes a feast
By gazing on her features, crimson'd high
"Are you from Acton, pretty lass ?" he cried :
Yes," with a curtsey she replied.
Why then you know the laundress, Sally Wrench?” "She is my cousin, Sir, and next-door neighbour." "That's lucky-I've a message for the wench, Which needs despatch, and you may save my labour. Give her this kiss, my dear, and say I sent it,
But mind, you owe me one-I've only lent it.".
"She shall know," cried the girl, as she brandish'd her bough,
"Of the loving intentions you bore me;
But as to the kiss, as there's haste, you'll allow
That you'd better run forward and give it my Cow,
For she, at the rate she is scampering now,
Will reach Acton some minutes before me."
The Farmer's Wife and the Gascon.
AT Neuchatel, in France, where they prepare
But as salt-water made their charms increase,
This damsel had to help her in the farm,
In fact a gaby,
And such a glutton when you came to feed him,
That Wantley's dragon, who "ate barns and churches,
As if they were geese and turkies,"
(Vide the Ballad,) scarcely could exceed him.
One morn she had prepared a monstrous bowl
And wouldn't go to Church (good careful soul !)
Watch it he did he never took his eyes off,
But lick'd his upper, then his under lip,
Like my Lord Salisbury, he heaved a sigh,
How I do envy you your lot!"
Each moment did his appetite grow stronger;
At length he could not bear it any longer,
But on all sides his looks he turn'd,
And finding that the coast was clear, he quaff'd
Scudding from church, the farmer's wife
Flew to the dairy;
But stood aghast, and could not, for her life,
One sentence mutter,
Until she summon'd breath enough to utter
"Holy St. Mary!"
And shortly, with a face of scarlet,
The vixen (for she was a vixen) flew
Upon the varlet,
Asking the when, and where, and how, and who
Had gulp'd her cream, nor left an atom ;
To which he gave not separate replies,