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Henceforth the morn shall dewy sorrow shed,
And ev❜ning tears upon the grass be spread;
The rolling streams with wat'ry grief shall flow,
And winds shall moan aloud — when loud they blow.
Henceforth, as oft as autumn shall return,

The drooping trees, when'er it raïns, shall mourn;
This season quite shall strip the country's pride,
For 'twas in autumn Blouzelinda died.

Where'er I gad, I Blouzelind shall view,
Woods, dairy, barn, and mows our passion knew.
When I direct my eyes to yonder wood,
Fresh rising sorrow curdles in my blood.

Thither I've often been the damsel's guide,
When rotten sticks our fuel have supplied;
There I remember how her faggots large
Where frequently these happy shoulders charge.
Sometimes this crook drew hazel boughs adown,
And stuff'd her apron wide with nuts so brown;
Or, when her feeding hogs had miss'd their way,
Or wallowing 'mid a feast of acorns lay,

Th' untoward creatures to the sty I drove,
And whistled all the way or told my love.
If by the dairy's hatch I chance to hie,
I shall her goodly countenance espy,
For there her goodly countenance I've seen;
Set off with kerchief starch'd and pinners clean.
Sometimes, like wax, she rolls the butter round,
Or with the wooden lily prints the pound.
Whilom I've seen her skim the clouted cream,
And press from spongy curds the milky stream;
But now, alas! these ears shall hear no more
The whining swine surround the dairy door;
No more her care shall fill the hollow tray,
To fat the guzzling hogs with floods of whey.
Lament, ye swine! in grunting spend your grief,
For you, like me, have lost your sole relief.

When in the barn the sounding flail I ply,
Where from her sieve the chaff was wont to fly,
The poultry there will seem around to stand,
Waiting upon her charitable hand :

No succour meet the poultry now can find,
For they, like me, have lost their Blouzelind.
Whenever by yon barley-mow I pass,
Before my eyes will trip the tidy lass,

I pitch'd the sheaves (oh! could I do so now),
Which she in rows pil'd on the growing mow.
There ev'ry deal my heart by love was gain'd,
There the sweet kiss my courtship has explain'd:
Ah! Blouzelind! that mow I ne'er shall see,
But thy memorial will revive in me.

Lament, ye fields! and rueful symptoms show,
Henceforth let not the smelling primrose grow;
Let weeds instead of butterflow'rs appear;
And meads, instead of daisies, hemlock bear;
For cowslips sweet let dandelions spread,
For Blouzelinda, blithesome maid! is dead.
Lament, ye swains! and o'er her grave bemoan,
And spell ye right this verse upon her stone:
"Here Blouzelinda lies- Alas, alas!
Weep shepherds! —and remember flesh is grass.
Grub. Albeit thy songs are sweeter to mine ear
Than to the thirsty cattle rivers clear,
Or winter porridge to the lab'ring youth,
Or buns and sugar to the damsel's tooth;
Yet Blouzelinda's name shall tune my lay;
Of her I'll sing for ever and for aye.

When Blouzelind-expir'd, the wether's bell Before the drooping flock toll'd forth her knell; The solemn death-watch click'd the hour she died, And shrilling crickets in the chimney cried; The boding raven on her cottage sate,

And with hoarse croaking warn'd us of her fate ;

The lambkin, which her wonted tendance bred,
Dropp'd on the plains that fatal instant dead;
Swarm'd on a rotten stick the bees I spied,
Which erst I saw when Goody Dobson died.
How shall I, void of tears, her death relate ?
While on her darling's bed her mother sate,
These words the dying Blouzelinda spoke;
And of the dead let none the will revoke.

"Mother," quoth she, " let not the poultry need,
And give the goose wherewith to raise her breed;
Be these my sister's care — and ev'ry morn
Amid the ducklings let her scatter corn;

The sickly calf, that's hous'd, be sure to tend,
Feed him with milk, and from bleak colds defend.
Yet ere I die-see, mother, yonder shelf,
There secretly I've hid my worldly pelf;
Twenty good shillings in a rag I laid.
Be ten the parson's, for my sermon paid-
The rest is yours: my spinning wheel and rake
Let Susan keep, for her dear sister's sake:
My new straw hat, that's trimly lin❜d with green,
Let Peggy wear, for she's a damsel clean:
My leathern bottle, long in harvests tried,
Be Grubbinol's-this silver ring beside:
Three silver pennies and a ninepence bent,
A token kind to Bumkinet is sent."

Thus spoke the maiden, while her mother cried,
And, peaceful, like the harmless lamb she died.

To show their love, the neighbours far and near
Follow'd, with wistful look, the damsel's bier,
Sprigg'd rosemary the lads and lasses bore,
While dismally the parson walk'd before.
Upon her grave the rosemary they threw,
The daisy, butterflow'r, and endive blue.

After the good man warn'd us from his text, That none could tell whose turn would be the next,

He said, that Heav'n would take her soul, no doubt,
And spoke the hour-glass in her praise― quite out.
To her sweet mem'ry flow'ry garlands strung,
O'er her now empty seat aloft were hung;
With wicker rods we fenc'd her tomb around,
To ward from man and beast the hallow'd ground.
Lest her new grave the parson's cattle rase,
For both his horse and cow the churchyard graze.
Now we trudg'd homeward to her mother's farm,
To drink new cider mull'd with ginger warm;
For Gaffer Treadwell told us, by the by,
Excessive sorrow is exceeding dry.

While bulls bear horns upon their curled brow,
Or lasses with soft strokings milk the cow;
While paddling ducks the standing lake desire,
Or batt'ning hogs roll in the sinking mire;
While moles the crumbled earth in hillocks raise;
So long shall swains tell Blouzelinda's praise.
Thus wail'd the louts in melancholy strain,
Till bonny Susan sped across the plain :
They seiz'd the lass, in apron clean array'd,
And to the alehouse forc'd the village maid;
In ale and kisses they forget their cares,
And Susan Blouzelinda's loss repairs.

GAY.

IMOGEN AND PISANIO.

Imo. I would thou grew'st unto the shores o' th' haven, And question'dst every sail: if he should write,

And I not have it, 'twere as a paper lost

With offer'd mercy in it. What was the last,

That he spoke with thee?

Pis. 'Twas his queen, his queen!
Imo. Then wav'd his handkerchief?
Pis. And kiss'd it, madam.

1

Imo. Senseless linen, happier therein than I: And that was all?

Pis. No, madam; for so long

As he could mark me with his eye, or I
Distinguish him from others, he did keep
The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief,
Still waving, as the fits and stirs of's mind
Could best express how slow his soul sail'd on,
How swift his ship.

Imo. Thou should'st have made him ev❜n

As little as a crow, or less, ere left

To after-eye him.

Pis. Madam, so I did.

Imo. I would have broke mine eye-strings; crack'd 'em, but

To look upon him; till the diminution,

From space, had pointed him sharp as my needle;
Nay followed him till he had melted from

The smallness of a gnat to air; and then

Have turn'd mine eye, and wept - but, good Pisanio,
When shall we hear from him?

Pis. Be assured, madam,

With his next vantage.

Imo. I did not take my leave of him, but had Most pretty things to say: ere I could tell him How I would think on him at certain hours,

Such thoughts, and such; or I could make him swear
The shes of Italy should not betray

Mine interest and his honour; or could charge him
At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight,
T'encounter me with orisons (for then

I am in Heav'n for him), or ere I could
Give him that parting kiss, which I had set
Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father,
And, like the tyrannous breathing of the north,
Shakes all our buds from blowing.

SHAKESPEAR

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