For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa.

Mickle.-Born 1734, Died 1788.

930.-COUNTRY JUSTICES AND THEIR DUTIES.

The social laws from insult to protect,
To cherish peace, to cultivate respect;
The rich from wanton cruelty restrain,
To smooth the bed of penury and pain;
The hapless vagrant to his rest restore,
The maze of fraud, the haunts of theft
explore;

The thoughtless maiden, when subdued by art,

To aid, and bring her rover to her heart;
Wild riot's voice with dignity to quell,
Forbid unpeaceful passions to rebel,
Wrest from revenge the meditated harm:
For this fair Justice raised her sacred arm;
For this the rural magistrate, of yore,
Thy honours, Edward, to his mansion bore.
Oft, where old Air in conscious glory
sails,

On silver waves that flow through smiling vales;

In Harewood's groves, where long my youth was laid,

Unseen beneath their ancient world of shade; With many a group of antique columns crown'd,

In Gothic guise such mansion have I found. Nor lightly deem, ye apes of modern

race,

Ye cits that sore bedizen nature's face,

Of the more manly structures here ye view;
They rose for greatness that ye never knew!
Ye reptile cits, that oft have moved my
spleen

With Venus and the Graces on your green!
Let Plutus, growling o'er his ill-got wealth,
Let Mercury, the thriving god of stealth,
The shopman, Janus, with his double looks,
Rise on your mounts, and perch upon your
books!

But spare my Venus, spare each sister
Grace,

Ye cits, that sore bedizen nature's face!

Ye royal architects, whose antic taste Would lay the realms of sense and nature waste;

Forgot, whenever from her steps ye stray,
That folly only points each other way;

. Here, though your eye no courtly creature sees,

Snakes on the ground, or monkeys in the

trees;

Yet let not too severe a censure fall
On the plain precincts of the ancient hall.

The maudlin farmer kens him o'er his beer,
And tells his old, traditionary tale,
Though known to every tenant of the vale.
Here, where of old the festal ox has fed,
Mark'd with his weight, the mighty horns are
spread!

Some ox, O Marshall, for a board like thine,
Where the vast master with the vast sirloin
Vied in round magnitude-Respect I bear
To thee, though oft the ruin of the chair.

These, and such antique tokens that record
The manly spirit, and the bounteous board,
Me more delight than all the gewgaw train,
The whims and zigzags of a modern brain,
More than all Asia's marmosets to view,
Grin, frisk, and water in the walks of Kew.

Through these fair valleys, stranger, hast
thou stray'd,

By any chance, to visit Harewood's shade,
And seen with honest, antiquated air
In the plain hall the magistratial chair?
There Herbert sat-The love of human kind,
Pure light of truth, and temperance of mind,
In the free eye the featured soul display'd,
Honour's strong beam, and Mercy's melting..
shade:

Justice that, in the rigid paths of law, Would still some drops from Pity's fountain draw,

Bend o'er her urn with many a gen'rous fear, Ere his firm seal should force one orphan's

tear;

Fair equity, and reason scorning art,
And all the sober virtues of the heart-
These sat with Herbert, these shall best avail
Where statutes order, or where statutes fail.
Be this, ye rural magistrates, your plan:
Firm be your justice, but be friends to man.
He whom the mighty master of this ball
We fondly deem, or farcically call,
To own the patriarch's truth, however loth,
Holds but a mansion crush'd before the moth.
Frail in his genius, in his heart too frail,
Born but to err, and erring to bewail,
Shalt thou his faults with eye severe explore,
And give to life one human weakness more?
Still mark if vice or nature prompts the
deed:

Still mark the strong temptation and the need:

On pressing want, on famine's powerful call, At least more lenient let thy justice fall.

For him, who, lost to every hope of life, Has long with fortune held unequal strife, Known to no human love, no human care, The friendless, homeless object of despair; For the poor vagrant feel, while he complains, Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. Alike, if folly or misfortune brought Those last of woes his evil days have wrought; Believe with social mercy and with me, Folly's misfortune in the first degree.

Perhaps on some inhospitable shore

The houseless wretch a widow'd parent bore;
Who then, no more by golden prospects led,
Of the poor Indian begg'd a leafy bed.
Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain,
Perhaps that parent mourn'd her soldier
slain;

Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, The big drops mingling with the milk he drew,

Gave the sad presage of his future years,
The child of misery, baptized in tears!

Dr. Langhorne.-Born 1735, Died 1779.

931.-GIPSIES.

The gipsy race my pity rarely move;
Yet their strong thirst of liberty I love.
Not Wilkes, our Freedom's holy martyr,

more;

Nor his firm phalanx of the common shore.

For this in Norwood's patrimonial groves The tawny father with his offspring roves; When summer suns lead slow the sultry day, In mossy caves, where welling waters play, Fann'd by each gale that cools the fervid sky, With this in ragged luxury they lie. Oft at the sun the dusky elfins strain The sable eye, then snugging, sleep again; Oft as the dews of cooler evening fall, For their prophetic mother's mantle call.

Far other cares that wand'ring mother wait,

The mouth, and oft the minister of fate! From her to hear, in ev'ning's friendly shade, Of future fortune, flies the village maid, Draws her long-hoarded copper from its hold, And rusty halfpence purchase hopes of gold, But, ah! ye maids, beware the gipsy's lures!

She opens not the womb of time, but yours. Oft has her hands the hapless Marian wrung, Marian, whom Gay in sweetest strains has sung!

The parson's maid-sore cause had she to

rue

The gipsy's tongue; the parson's daughter too.

Long had that anxious daughter sigh'd to know

What Vellum's sprucy clerk, the valley's beau,

Meant by those glances which at church he stole,

Her father nodding to the psalm's slow drawl;

Long had she sigh'd; at length a prophet

came,

By many a sure prediction known to fame, To Marian known, and all she told, for true : She knew the future, for the past she knew.

Dr. Langhorne.-Born 1735, Died 1779.

932.-AN APPEAL FOR THE

INDUSTRIOUS POOR.

But still, forgot the grandeur of thy reign,
Descend to duties meaner crowns disdain;
That worst excrescency of power forego,
That pride of kings, humanity's first foe.

Let age no longer toil with feeble strife,
Worn by long service in the war of life;
Nor leave the head, that time hath whiten'd,
bare

To the rude insults of the searching air;
Nor bid the knee, by labour harden'd, bend,
O thou, the poor man's hope, the poor man's
friend!

If, when from heaven severer seasons fall, Fled from the frozen roof and mouldering wall,

Each face the picture of a winter day,

More strong than Teniers' pencil could por

tray;

If then to thee resort the shivering train, Of cruel days, and cruel man complain, Say to thy heart (remembering him who said), "These people come from far, and have no bread."

Nor leave thy venal clerk empower'd to

hear;

The voice of want is sacred to thy ear.

He where no fees his sordid pen invite,

Sports with their tears, too indolent to write;
Like the fed monkey in the fable, vain
To hear more helpless animals complain.

But chief thy notice shall one monster
claim,

A monster furnish'd with a human frame,
The parish officer!-though verse disdain
Terms that deform the splendour of the
strain;

It stoops to bid thee bend the brow severe
On the sly, pilfering, cruel overseer;
The shuffling farmer, faithful to no trust,
Ruthless as rocks, insatiate as the dust!

When the poor hind, with length of years
decay'd,

Leans feebly on his once-subduing spade,
Forgot the service of his abler days,
His profitable toil, and honest praise,
Shall this low wretch abridge his scanty
bread,

This slave, whose board his former labours spread?

When harvest's burning suns and sickening air

From labour's unbraced hand the grasp'd hook tear,

Where shall the helpless family be fed,
That vainly languish for a father's bread?
See the pale mother, sunk with grief and care,
To the proud farmer fearfully repair;
Soon to be sent with insolence away,
Referr'd to vestries, and a distant day!
Referr'd-to perish!-Is my verse severe ?
Unfriendly to the human character?
Ah! to this sigh of sad experience trust:
The truth is rigid, but the tale is just.

If in thy courts this caitiff wretch appear, Think not that patience were a virtue here. His low-born pride with honest rage control; Smite his hard heart, and shake his reptile soul.

But, hapless! oft through fear of future

woe,

And certain vengeance of th' insulting foe, Oft, ere to thee the poor prefer their prayer, The last extremes of penury they bear.

Wouldst thou then raise thy patriot office higher,

To something more than magistrate aspire? And, left each poorer, pettier chase behind, Step nobly forth, the friend of human kind? The game I start courageously pursue! Adieu to fear! to insolence adieu!

And first we'll range this mountain's stormy side,

Where the rude winds the shepherd's roof deride,

As meet no more the wintry blast to bear,
And all the wild hostilities of air.
-That roof have I remember'd many a year;
It once gave refuge to a hunted deer-
Here, in those days, we found an aged

pair ;

But time untenants-ha! what seest thou there ?

"Horror!-by Heaven, extended on a bed Of naked fern, two human creatures dead! Embracing as alive!-ah, no!—no life! Cold, breathless!

"Tis the shepherd and his wife. I knew the scene, and brought thee to behold What speaks more strongly than the story told.

They died through want

'By every power I swear, If the wretch treads the earth, or breathes the air, Through whose default of duty, or design, These victims fell, he dies."

"Infernal!-Mine!-by-"

They fell by thine.

Swear on no pretence:

A swearing justice wants both grace and

sense.

Dr. Langhorne.-Born 1735, Died 1779.

933.-MERCY SHOULD HAVE
MITIGATED JUSTICE.

Unnumber'd objects ask thy honest care,
Beside the orphan's tear, the widow's prayer:
Far as thy power can save, thy bounty bless,
Unnumber'd evils call for thy redress.
Seest thou afar yon solitary thorn,
Whose aged limbs the heath's wild winds have
torn ?

While yet to cheer the homeward shepherd's

eye,

A few seem straggling in the evening sky! Not many suns have hasten'd down the day, Or blushing moons immersed in clouds their way,

Since there, a scene that stain'd their sacred light

With horror stopp'd a felon in his flight:
A babe just born that signs of life exprest,
Lay naked o'er the mother's lifeless breast.
The pitying robber, conscious that, pursued,
He had no time to waste, yet stood and
view'd;

To the next cot the trembling infant bore,
And gave a part of what he stole before;
Nor known to him the wretches were, nor
dear,

He felt as man, and dropp'd a human tear.
Far other treatment she who breathless lay,
Found from a viler animal of prey.

Worn with long toil on many a

road,

painful

That toil increased by nature's growing load, When evening brought the friendly hour of

rest,

And all the mother throng'd about her breast,
The ruffian officer opposed her stay,
And, cruel, bore her in her pangs away,

So far beyond the town's last limits drove, That to return were hopeless, had she strove, Abandon'd there-with famine, pain and cold, And anguish, she expired-the rest I've told. "Now let me swear. For by my soul's last sigh,

That thief shall live, that overseer shall die." Too late!-his life the generous robber paid,

Lost by that pity which his steps delay'd!
No soul-discerning Mansfield sat to hear,
No Hertford bore his prayer to mercy's ear;
No liberal justice first assign'd the gaol,
Or urged, as Camplin would have urged, his
tale.

Dr. Langhorne.-Born 1735, Died 1779.

934-A FAREWELL TO THE VALLEY OF IRWAN.

Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale,
My infant years where Fancy led,
And soothed me with the western gale,
Her wild dreams waving round my head,
While the blithe blackbird told his tale.
Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale!

The primrose on the valley's side,

The green thyme on the mountain's head, The wanton rose, the daisy pied,

The wilding's blossom blushing red; No longer I their sweets inhale. Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale!

How oft, within yon vacant shade,

Has evening closed my careless eye! How oft along those banks I've stray'd, And watch'd the wave that wander'd by ; Full long their loss shall I bewail. Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale!

Yet still, within yon vacant grove,
To mark the close of parting day;
Along yon flowery banks to rove,

And watch the wave that winds away;
Fair Fancy sure shall never fail,
Though far from these and Irwan's vale.

Dr. Langhorne.-Born 1735, Died 1779.

935.-OWEN OF CARRON.

I.

On Carron's side the primrose pale,
Why does it wear a purple hue?
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale,

Why stream your eyes with pity's dew?

'Tis all with gentle Owen's blood
That purple grows the primrose pale;
That pity pours the tender flood
From each fair eye in Marlivale.

The evening star sat in his eye,

The sun his golden tresses gave, The north's pure morn her orient dye, To him who rests in yonder grave!

Beneath no high, historic stone,

Though nobly born, is Owen laid; Stretch'd on the greenwood's lap alone, He sleeps beneath the waving shade.

There many a flowery race hath sprung,
And fled before the mountain gale,
Since first his simple dirge he sung;
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale !

Yet still, when May with fragrant feet Hath wander'd o'er your meads of gold, That dirge I hear so simply sweet

Far echo'd from each evening fold.

II.

'Twas in the pride of William's day, When Scotland's honours flourish'd still, That Moray's earl, with mighty sway,

Bare rule o'er many a Highland hill.

And far for him their fruitful store

The fairer plains of Carron spread; In fortune rich, in offspring poor, An only daughter crown'd his bed.

Oh! write not poor-the wealth that flows
In waves of gold round India's throne,
All in her shining breast that glows,
To Ellen's charms, were earth and stone.

For her the youth of Scotland sigh'd,
The Frenchman gay, the Spaniard grave,
And smoother Italy applied,

And many an English baron brave.

In vain by foreign arts assail'd,

No foreign loves her breast beguile, And England's honest valour fail'd, Paid with a cold, but courteous smile.

Ah! woe to thee, young Nithisdale,
That o'er thy cheek those roses stray'd,
Thy breath, the violet of the vale,

Thy voice, the music of the shade!

"Ah! woe to thee, that Ellen's love Alone to thy soft tale would yield! For soon those gentle arms shall prove The conflict of a ruder field."

'Twas thus a wayward sister spoke,
And cast a rueful glance behind,
As from her dim wood-glen she broke,
And mounted on the moaning wind.

She spoke and vanish'd-more unmoved
Than Moray's rocks, when storms invest,
The valiant youth by Ellen loved,
With aught that fear or fate suggest.

For love, methinks, hath power to raise
The soul beyond a vulgar state;
Th' unconquer'd banners he displays
Control our fears and fix our fate.

But who is he, whose locks so fair Adown his manly shoulders flow? Beside him lies the hunter's spear, Beside him sleeps the warrior's bow. He bends to Ellen-(gentle sprite! Thy sweet seductive arts forbear), He courts her arms with fond delight, And instant vanishes in air.

III.

'Twas when, on summer's softest eve,
Of clouds that wander'd west away,
Twilight with gentle hand did weave
Her fairy robe of night and day;

When all the mountain gales were still,
And the waves slept against the shore,
And the sun, sunk beneath the hill,

Left his last smile on Lammermore;

Led by those waking dreams of thought
That warm the young unpractised breast,
Her wonted bower sweet Ellen sought,
And Carron murmur'd near, and soothed her
into rest.

IV.

There is some kind and courtly sprite
That o'er the realm of fancy reigns,
Throws sunshine on the mask of night,
And smiles at slumber's powerless chains;

'Tis told, and I believe the tale,

At this soft hour that sprite was there,
And spread with fairer flowers the vale,
And fill'd with sweeter sounds the air.

A bower he framed (for he could frame
What long might weary mortal wight:
Swift as the lightning's rapid flame

Darts on the unsuspecting sight).

Such bower he framed with magic hand,
As well that wizard bard hath wove,
In scenes where fair Armida's wand
Waved all the witcheries of love :

Yet was it wrought in simple show;
Nor Indian mines nor orient shores
Had lent their glories here to glow,

Or yielded here their shining stores.

All round a poplar's trembling arms
The wild rose wound her damask flower;
The woodbine lent her spicy charms,

That loves to weave the lover's bower.

The ash, that courts the mountain-air,
In all her painted blooms array'd,
The wilding's blossom blushing fair,

Combined to form the flowery shade.

With thyme that loves the brown hill's breast, The cowslip's sweet, reclining head,

The violet of sky-woven vest,

Was all the fairy ground bespread.

V.

Hast thou not found at early dawn
Some soft ideas melt away,

If o'er sweet vale, or flow'ry lawn,
The sprite of dreams hath bid thee stray?

Hast thou not some fair object seen,

And, when the fleeting form was past,
Still on thy memory found its mien,
And felt the fond idea last?

Thou hast and oft the pictured view,
Seen in some vision counted vain,
Has struck thy wond'ring eye anew,
And brought the long-lost dream again.
With warrior-bow, with hunter's spear,
With locks adown his shoulder spread,
Young Nithisdale is ranging near-

He's ranging near yon mountain's head.
Scarce had one pale moon pass'd away,
And fill'd her silver urn again,
When in the devious chase to stray,
Afar from all his woodland train,

To Carron's banks his fate consign'd;
And, all to shun the fervid hour,
He sought some friendly shade to find,
And found the visionary bower.

VI.

Led by the golden star of love,
Sweet Ellen took her wonted way,
And in the deep defending grove
Sought refuge from the fervid day-

Oh!-who is he whose ringlets fair

Disorder'd o'er his green vest flow, Reclined to rest-whose sunny hair Half hides the fair cheek's ardent glow?

"Tis he, that sprite's illusive guest,

(Ah me! that sprites can fate control!) That lives still imaged on her breast, That lives still pictured in her soul.

As when some gentle spirit fled

From earth to breathe Elysian air, And, in the train whom we call dead, Perceives its long-loved partner there; Soft, sudden pleasure rushes o'er, Resistless, o'er its airy frame, To find its future fate restore The object of its former flame :