He soon replied, I do admire Of woman kind but one; I am a linen-draper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calender Will lend his horse to go. Quoth Mistress Gilpin, That's well said; John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife; That, though on pleasure she was bent, The morning came, the chaise was brought, Should say that she was proud. So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin. Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, Were never folk so glad; The stones did rattle underneath John Gilpin at his horse's side But soon came down again : For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he, When turning round his head, he saw So down he came; for loss of time, Were suited to their mind; Now Mistress Gilpin, careful soul! His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat, Like streamer long and gay, Till, loop and button failing both, At last it flew away. Then might all people well discern As hath been said or sung. The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, And ev'ry soul cried out, Well done! Away went Gilpin—who but he ; And still as fast as he drew near 'Twas wonderful to view Down ran the wine into the road, Which made his horse's flanks to smoke But still he seem'd to carry weight, And there he threw the wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild-goose at play. At Edmonton his loving wife Her tender husband, wond'ring much Stop, stop, John Gilpin! here's the house- The dinner waits, and we are tir'd: But yet his horse was not a whit The calender, amaz'd to see His neighbour in such trim, What news? what news? your tidings tell, Say why bare-headed you are come, Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And thus unto the calender In merry guise he spoke : I came because your horse would come, My hat and wig will soon be here, The calender, right glad to find When straight he came with hat and wig, A hat not much the worse for wear, He held them up, aud in his turn That hangs upon your face; Said John, It is my wedding day; And all the world would stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton, So turning to his horse, he said, 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine. Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! Away went Gilpin, and away She pull'd out half a crown : And thus unto the youth she said The youth did ride, and soon did meet But not performing what he meant, Away went Gilpin, and away The post-boy's horse right glad to miss Six gentlemen upon the road With post-boy scamp'ring in the rear, Stop thief! stop thief!-a highwayman! And all and each that pass'd that way Did join in the pursuit. And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space; And so he did, and won it too, Now let us sing, Long live the king, And Gilpin, long live he, § 174. An Evening Contemplation in a College, in Imitation of Gray's Elegy in a Country Church-yard. DUNCOMBE. THE Curfew tolls the hour of closing gates; With jarring sounds the porter turns the key; Then in his dreary mansion slumb'ring waits, And slowly, sternly, quits it though for me. Now shine the spires beneath the paly moon, And through the cloisters peace and silence reign; Save where some fidler scrapes a drowsy tune, Or copious bowls inspire a jovial strain; Save that in yonder cobweb-mantled room, Where sleeps a student in profound repose, Oppress'd with ale, wide echoes thro' the gloom The droning music of his vocal nose. Within those walls, where through the glimmering shade Appear the pamphlets in a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow bed till morning laid, The peaceful fellows of the college sleep. The tinkling bell proclaiming early pray'rs, The noisy servants rattling o'er their head, The calls of business, and domestic cares, Ne'er rouse these sleepers from their downy bed. No chattering females crowd their social fire, No dread have they of discord and of strife; Unknown the names of husband and of sire, Unfelt the plagues of matrimonial life. Oft have they bask'd beneath the sunny walls, Oft have the benches bow'd beneath their weight, How jocund are their looks when dinner calls! How smoke the cutlets on their crowded plate! O! let not temperance, too disdainful, hear How long their feasts, how long their dinners last: Nor let the fair, with a contemptuous sneer, On these unmarried men reflections cast! The splendid fortune and the beauteous face (Themselves confess it, and their sires bemoan) Too soon are caught by scarlet and by lace; These sons of science shine in black alone. Forgive, ye fair, th' involuntary fault, If these no feats of gaiety display, Where through proud Ranelagh's wide-echoing vault Melodious Frasi trills her quavering lay. Does broider'd coat agree with sable gown? Can Mechlin laces shade a churchman's hand? Or learning's votaries ape the beaux of town? Perhaps in these time-tottering walls reside Some who were once the darling of the fair, Some who of old could tastes and fashions guide, Control the manager, and awe the player. Far from the giddy town's tumultuous strife, Their wishes yet have never learn'd to stray; Content and happy in a single life, They keep the noiseless tenor of their way. E'en now their books from cobwebs to protect, Enclos'd by doors of glass in Doric style, On polish'd pillars rais'd with bronzes deck'd, They claim the passing tribute of a smile. Oft are the authors' names, tho' richly bound, Mis-spelt by blundering binders' want of And many a catalogue is strew'd around, [care, To tell the admiring guest what books are there. For who, to thoughtless ignorance a prey, Neglects to hold short dalliance with a book? Who there but wishes to prolong his stay, And on those cases casts a lingering look? Reports attract the lawyer's parting eyes; Novels Lord Fopling and Sir Plume require; For songs and plays the voice of Beauty cries, And Sense and Nature Grandison desire. For thee, who, mindful of thy lov'd compeers, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If chance, with prying search, in future years, Some antiquarian should inquire thy fate; Haply some friend may shake his hoary head With hose ungarter'd, o'er yon turfy bed, Then in the garden choose a sunny walk, "One morn we miss'd him at the hour of Nor in the hall, nor on his favorite green : shire, That day to church he led a blushing bride, A nymph whose snowy vest and maiden fear Improv'd her beauty while the knot was tied. "Now, by his patron's bounteous care remov'd, He roves enraptur'd thro' the fields of Kent; Yet, ever mindful of the place he lov'd, Read here the letter which he lately sent:" The Letter. IN rural innocence secure I dwell, Alike to fortune and to fame unknown: Approving conscience cheers my humble cell, And social quiet marks me for her own. Next to the blessings of religious truth, Two gifts my endless gratitude engage— A wife, the joy and transport of my youth; Now with a son, the comfort of my age, Seek not to draw me from this kind retreat In loftier spheres unfit, untaught to move; Content with calm domestic life, where meet The sweets of friendship, and the smiles of love. $175. The Three Warnings. A Tale. By Mrs. THRALE. THE tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground: 'Twas therefore said by ancient sages, That love of life increas'd with years appears. Which all confess, but few perceive, Be pleas'd to hear a modern tale. And looking grave- You must, says he, His hour-glass trembled while he spoke→→ In hopes you'll have no more to say, Well pleas'd the world will leave.' What next the hero of our tale befel, Nor thought of Death as near; He pass'd his hours in peace : Brought on his eightieth year. 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore.' So much the worse,' the clown rejoin'd; When sports went round, and all were gay, Besides, you promis'd me three warnings, On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day, Death call'd aside the jocund groom Which I have look'd for nights and mornings; I can recover damages.' I know,' cries Death, that at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest; But don't be captious, friend at least: I little thought you'd still be able To stump about your farm and stable; Your years have run to a great length; I wish you joy, though, of your strength!' Hold,' says the farmer, not so fast! I have been lame these four years past.' And no great wonder,' Death replies ; However, you still keep your eyes; And sure to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends.' Perhaps,' says Dobson, so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight.' This is a shocking story, faith; Yet there's some comfort still,' says Death: Each strives your sadness to amuse; I warrant you hear all the news.' Sir Traffic's name, so well applied, Awak'd his brother-merchant's pride; And Thrifty, who had all his life Paid utmost def'rence to his wife, Confess'd her arguments had reason; And by th' approaching summer season Draws a few hundreds from the stocks, And purchases his country box. Some three or four miles out of town (An hour's ride will bring you down) He fixes on his choice abode, Not half a furlong from the road; And so convenient does it lay, The stages pass it every day; And then so snug, so mighty pretty, To have a house so near the city! Take but your places at the Boar, You're set down at the very door. Well then, suppose them fix'd at last, There's none,' cries he; and if there White washing, painting, scrubbing past, LLOYD. $176. The Cit's Country Box. Vos sapere, et solos aio bene vivere, quorum Conspicitur nitidis fundata pecunia villis. HOR. THE wealthy cit, grown old in trade, How all the country seems to smile!' The cit commends the road and weather: What signifies the loads of wealth, your Hugging themselves in ease and clover, 'Well! to be sure, it must be own'd, Now bricklayers, carpenters, and joiners, With Chinese artists and designers, Produce their schemes of alteration, To work this wondrous reformation. |