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'Tis sweet up-on th' im-pas-sion'd wave To hear the voice of ,

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mu-- sic stealing, And while the dark winds wild - ly rave, To: Espressione.

catch the genuine soul of feeling; While, all around, the e-ther blue Its



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dim magnetic beam is shedding, And ro-sy tints of heav'nly hue Are

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thro' the midnight darkness spreading.

'Tis sweet upon th' impassion'd wave

To hear the voice of music stealing,
And while the dark winds wildly rave,

To catch the genuine soul of feeling !
While all around, the ether blue

Its dim, majestic beam is shedding,
And roseate tints of heavenly hue

Are through the midnight darkness spreading!

So is it, when the thrill of love

Through every burning pulse is flowing ;
And like the foliage of the grove,

A holy light on all bestowing!
0! never from this fever'd heart

Shall dreams on wings of gold be flying ;
But even when life itself shall part,

I'll think on thee, sweet maid, though dying!

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'Twas thus upon the mountain's height

Young Dermod sung his plaint of sorrow,
Regardless of the evening light,

That ushers in the gay to-morrow !
For love had of his cheek bereft

That smile that glow-of joyous gladness,
And sympathy's cold sting had left

Nought there--but pale and gloomy sadness !




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Introductory lelter from Mr Jacob ASHPOLE, Hongrower, to the Editor. * SIR,

sure he called them sonneis, though I hand you (1) four sonnets about Thomson and Bloomfield, who divide Hops, by desire of Mr (rabbitit, their poems by the four quarters of the I almost popt out his name,) but you year,don't call theirs by any such name) are to call him R. or Mr R. or else no- but, bless my heart ! to call them a thing at all, just as you like to take full account of all that is done with us your choice. They were writ to plea- from spring to winter is a fine take-in. sure me, for I was tired to death of I civilly pointed out to him, that there finding your authors of poems, and was a world of hop-work left out, but epics, and ballads, and cantos, and got nothing but a flea in the ear by it, acrostics, and sketches, and operas, and for he mumbled something, that “ lyrics,and other sorts of verses, of which few discriminating marks were suffiI don't know one from t'other, not I, cient for the purposes of poetry A though my daughters read a mort of word in your ear,-friend R. has a them to me. I was tired, I say, of find- very good opinion of himself; try to ing the poets always harping upon the make him hear reason, and he'll turn same old story. Hundreds and hun- as stunt as a mule, and you may as dreds constantly go sowing and mow- well endeavour to make å hop-plant ing, and reaping, and threshing into curl round the pole, from right to left, verse; but not a soul, as I ever heard (which, you know, it never will do) tell

, (2) ever came into our hop-grounds as get him to alter a word in his verto sing a song about them-and why ses, when he draws up and says, it's should'nt they, just as well ? My girls all right as it is. Now you'll see that have got a good many poems and pock- he ha'n't said a syllable about putting cet-books, and among'em there's Thom- plenty of compost on the land, though son's Seasons, and Burns the Plough. I should like to know what sort of man's poems, (which are very badly plants he'd get without it. Not a word spelt,) and Bloomfield's Farmer's Boy; about becking the earth well-not a so I made 'em look 'em all well over, direction about the time for fixing the to see if there was anything about hop- poles ; for, d'ye think we set on our planting anywhere in them, but not a fellows to work, when we first see a word about it turned up. Indeed, I cloud and a rain-bow in spring-time, don't remember hearing a hist on the as he seems to reckon that we do? subject when the girls have been read. Then 'who'd guess that in summer we ing their books out loud to me of an pay women to tie fast the runners to evening; but then at those times I am the poles at three different heights ? apt to take a nap, for the regular sound ’Ad whip it, now I know what a sonof poetry is very composing. So I net is, if I didn't think his poetship, plucked up spirit one day, and asked Mr R., would be offended, I would a certain person (never mind who— try if I couldn't make something of he is a shy cock-set down, R.-that this “ discriminating mark” myself. must serve instead of a name)—well, Is this anything in the right style ? I asked him once, when I saw him At first they stoop, and those who can't loitering by my strip of land in the well bend Parkside grounds, whether he couldn't

Get a sad crick o' the back. But at midmake a rhyme or two on the hop-pick

height ing. He rather caught at the hint, and

The tie is easier made, they stand upsaid he'd give it a thought, and at last But for the third, 'tis needful to ascend

right. brought (3) these four sonnets (I am

A pair of steps, the bines so high extend.


* We subjoin some VARIATIONS in the M.S. letter, noticed by a critical printer's alevil, with a few notes, by the same claw.

(1) Originally, “ I hand you four pockets of hops, per order of"-the words in ita. Fics. Blotted, and corrected, as above.

(2) Mr. A. is wrong.Chr. Smart wrote a didactic poem, entitled the Hop-garden. (3) Here the words “ Nos. 1-4, as per bill of parcels,” were dashed out.


And this (if there be wind) reveals to that a poet could have been mum sight

about the coming in of the last load ? Whether their ancles be in decent plight, Why, it is all drest up with flags and Or be the props of pounders

ribbons--the men shout away, (if not but that a good thumping pound- they are not too drunk)—the women er of a leg is main useful in treading prate and giggle,-boys huzza, and the hops into the pockets ; though, to toss up their hats wreathed with hop be sure, that is not the women-folks' leaves, -dogs bark,-cats vanish, business, but the men's, and yellow cows scamper tail on end, the world enough they come forth from the bags; comes out-o'-doors to see what's the but observe, that incident too is pass- fun,--and Farnham is in a merry uped over entirely by R. Now real- roar. For certain, there was not quite ly this here attempt of mine is more so much of this mad-cap rejoicing this than half a sonnet; and if I get en- last hop time, and whether this was couragement from you, I do think I from the weather being wettish, and might venture to supply the descrip- the crop not over promising, I don't tions which R. is so positive in refu- know,-- or whether it was not, that sing to try his hand at. My Betsey, the racketting of the Radicals with who is quite a dab at duinb crambo their banners, rather put some of us, of a winter evening, found some of the who are true King and Constitution rhymes for me; and with her help I don't men, out of sorts with that sort of trisee why I shouldn't work away. For umphing. However, when their flags instance, I should have to report that are forgotten, ours no doubt will be hop-tops, early in the year, make al- hoisted again, for I don't like to leave most as good a dish as grass. To off good old customs. If I wrote hop autumn would be added the arrival of sonnets, I'm sure I wouldn't pass over the hoppers, who are fetched in wag- the stamps upon our bags, they are gons from all parts of the country, so prettily done in red and blue and sailors from Portsmouth, -gypsies from black, and in a different pattern every every patch of green in our Surrey year. This year's mark is a bell

, lanes, - paupers from poorhouses, (though, that we almost always have, riff-raff from Saint Giles's, living from for you know, Farnham hops do really hand to mouth by a hundred nameless bear the bell,) and a stag in a shield, employments, and beggars from all and a couple of dogs for supporters. quarters, for the work is easy; any. Then I would describe our going to thing, indeed, that has got a pair of Weyhill Fair, to sell our pockets, hands will do to stand by a basket and where, as you no doubt know, we strip the branches. Then there's the Farnham folks have our own acre, in taking them to be dried at the kilns, which none but Farnham hops can be and afterwards the pocketting. Not pitched,-no, not if it were ever so a tittle is there in R.'s verses from much wished for, nay, if the King himnwhich one would guess that the pole- self, (God bless him, I dare say putters have a piece of stuff for a shirt loves his ale properly hopped,) grew bought for them by a subscription hops in the garden, at Carlton Palace, among the company of pickers, for or in Windsor Park (which would be whom they tear up the leafy poles, nearer Weyhill,) he could not send —which bit of holland is folded like them to The Acre for sale. Nothing a scarf at a funeral, only that it has is admitted there, but what was acà gay thingumbob as big as a plat- tually produced within the bounds of ter, twid:lled all about with ribbon, our parish. So here again would be and sewed to the shoulder, and the enough to say ; booths, and what not, whole is worn by the pole-puller, or all painted as natural as life ; and Anhis favourite lass, about the streets af- dover, where we sleep, as thick as three ter all is over. Who'd have thought in a bed at the time. The more I con

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& I applied to Adam MʻIngan, who is an honorary member of the Horticultural S0ciety, for an explanation of this passage, and he laid it before the meeting at their sederunt. It appears from their benevolent communication to my friend Adam, that none of the gramina, or species of grasses, are cultivated for human food as yet, but that the word grass is here used (as is common in England) in the way of abbreviation for spare rowgrass, which itself is a corruption of asparagus. The species which hop-tops are said to resemble, is a. officinalis.


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sider it, the more I am brought to to, so if you have, she mustn't be anS think there is no knowing what R. has gry. Indeed, I don't overmuch know

left out, so short has he been, and so who you yourself be, but I suppose Ei much has he neglected. He couldn't you're a 'cute printer of ballads, and i have had his eyes about him, one such like.(5) Only it seems to be a good --; would imagine, and yet he is a prying way off to send to get a little job of se sort of a chap too, and likes to see this kind done. However, that's no 1- what's going forward, and to know the business of mine. So no more at pre(: rights of things. Nevertheless, as he sent from your humble servant to com3: told me, if I chose to see the verses he mand, gave me, in print, that I might send JACOB ASHPOLE, Hopgrower. them to Mr Christopher North, care

of Mr Blackwood, i here pack them Furnham, Surrey, 19th October, 1821. cu off. (4) I can tell you this, though, that you

had best print them exactly P. S. Don't mind the scratchy ap* as they are set down for you, or I pearance of this letter. I was forced

shall have a fine hollabaloo, for he is to blot out here and there; for, being ta mighty precise, and will perhaps ac- mostly used to write to my customers,

cuse me of having a finger in the pie, I can't at once forget I have nothing i as I have already recommended a lit- in this to do with an invoice, or bill of s tle addition, and got no good by it. parcels. You don't want a pocket or Re: So don't alter them, though you'll two of prime last year's growth, do ye?

most likely grieve, like me, at their I can promise you they'd make preincompleteness ; but let him have his cious stingo, with some of your Lowway this once, he maybe will come lant malt. I could serve you cheap if round in time, and do things like other you did ; for though there is a baddish folks. I don't know whether you have crop to-year, we've got so much on a wife or no for me to send my respects hand, that prices are moderate.


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This balmy air, and yonder brimming cloud,

Which darkening as the sun-light grows intense,

Sets off its rainbow's bland magnificence,
Resuscitate within its silent shroud
The vegetative power, no longer bow'd

Beneath chill winter's sway. A stirring sense,

An irrepressible intelligence
Of gladsome times advancing, thaws the blood
Of nature's leafy tribes. Among their peers

The sprouting hop-plants lift their purple heads,
And warn the hinds, deep in the soil beneath

To drive the poles ;—this wither'd forest spreads,
Till all the plot, as if with ported spears,
Stands bristling, waiting each its verdant wreath.


BEAUTIFUL plant, sample of natural grace!

Whose bines, untrained, garland with gay festoon
The overbrowing hedge; or by the boor
Of dipping branch uplifted, fair repays

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(4)“ And hope they will prove fine, and request your future orders,"-erased with the

pen. (5) I am not in the actual employ of Mr North, (who indeed is not a printer,) although I frequently attend him for copy, or with proofs ; nor is my name “ Tipsy Thammus," as he in joke reported it, (vol. V, p. 328,) reversing the order of the two names, and spelling them designedly amiss.. THOMAS TIBBSON.

The help, by weaving o'er it with its sprays

A sylvan roof, an awning from the sun

For way-worn traveller, who, with heart foredone,
Casts himself prostrate on the grass, and stays
A thankful hour. Yet here, blithe pliant thing !
Man does his worst thy mazy flight to stop,
And links thee to a formal sapless prop,

Which thou obedient climb'st in many a ring
Grappling the staff-then fall thy shoots down trailing,

The uncouth tools of Art with beauty veiling.

Our vintage-time is come; the 'merry bands

Of old and young attend the annual call;

With foliage wound, the hop's supporters fall, And yield its fruitage to their ready hands Clusters devoid of juice-not such as bands

Of sunnier features nurse, where one and all

To the gathering flock, as to a festival,
When the plump grape in luscious ripeness stands.
Yet here the rustic gibe, the heart's light laugh,

The carol from untutor’d throat is heard,
While nimble fingers cull the husky store,

In baskets traversed by a wreathed staff, Than which, a nobler thyrsus ne'er was rear'd

By reeling Bacchanal in days of yore.

The grounds are cleared; the uprooted poles are piled

In files of pyramids, a dreary show,

Indicative of coming frost and snow;
And of the hop, which lately cheer'd the wild,
Nought now is extant, but å mass defiled

Of blackening strings, trampled in scorn below.

England no Bacchus boasts, yet we can go
To the grange's low-brow'd hall, where never smiled
His riotous cups, and where we circulate

A nutbrown beverage, flavour'd by the hop,
Drawn bright, and foaming high, for wassail glee,

While Christmas logs are blazing in the grate, And to old songs and tales, no sullen stop

Is put, but tongues are loud by the good ale set free.



The rich and balmy eve;
And hopes and fears that kindle hope,

An undistinguishable throng ;
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued, and cherish'd long.

The Moon is rising from the ebon tuft
Of stately firs, that wreathe the mountain top
With natural garland; like a deity,
Forth from her shrine majestical she peers,
In silver glory, through the deep blue sky
Ascending; and, with melancholy ray,
Smiles down upon the green autumnal world.

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