There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust,

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n,

To mis'ry's brink,

Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
He, ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine-no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom!

JAMES HURDIS was born at Bishopstone, Sussex, in the year 1763. His father, who was a gentleman of small fortune, died when the Poet was a boy, and left the charge of his education to his mother. He was worthy of the care she bestowed upon him; she lived to see him admired and beloved; and to find that when worldly honours most crowded on him he was most mindful of her who had laid the groundwork of his distinction. In 1780, he was entered as a commoner of St. Mary Hall, Oxford; and, two years afterwards, was chosen a Demy of St. Mary Magdalen. In 1785, he was ordained, and held the curacy of Burwash, in Sussex. In 1793, he was elected to the Professorship of Poetry; and, in 1797, took the degree of Doctor in Divinity. For some years he resided in the family of the Earl of Chichester, as tutor to his youngest son, who was afterwards Bishop of Bristol. In 1788, Hurdis first appeared before the public: "The Village Curate' obtained for him a reputation which he lived to establish. It was followed by "Adriano; or, the First of June," "The Favourite Village," several miscellaneous poems, and a tragedy, "Sir Thomas More." He died on the 19th December, 1801.

A brief and scanty biography of Hurdis, written by one of his sisters, supplies us with a few dates and facts, which make up the only history of his life. It is to be regretted that either the materials for more ample and interesting details were not to be procured, or that the pen which attempted to record them was insufficient for the task.

He is described as " tall and well-proportioned; his countenance serene and lively; of a fair complexion, with flaxen hair. His disposition was meek, affectionate, benevolent and cheerful; yet occasionally irritable and impatient. With his intimate friends he was affable, polite, and familiar, but in mixed company generally reserved." His life was passed in ease and elegant retirement from the more busy and exciting world; he had leisure to contemplate nature, to acquire a knowledge of her works, and to dedicate his taste as well as his learning to the service of religion. Although by no means an imitator, Hurdis must be considered as a follower of Cowper, to whom he was personally known, and by whom he was highly esteemed. He is, however, the only one of the numerous writers of the "School," founded by the author of "The Task," whose productions have survived the fashion of the day. The poem which introduced him to the public is the one upon which his reputation must depend. "The Village Curate" is a description of the amusements and occupations of a country pastor throughout the various seasons of the year. It is, in fact, a portrait of himself, in his quiet and happy seclusion as a village curate, enjoying the gentle society of his sisters-the death of one of whom he lamented in a sweet and vigorous elegy

**Each to Alcanor bound, and near in blood,
But nearer in affection ;"

taking with them daily walks through the lanes and fields, loving and examining all the wonderful works of nature. The poem is therefore for the most part descriptive, and it abounds in generous and virtuous sentiments; the DUTY of the village curate always predominates, and every ramble produces some reflections which encourage goodness, and exhibit, to discountenance, vice. Although far inferior in strength and delicacy to the master-spirit, whose disciple he avows himself, passages and even parts will be found in his poem which Cowper might have been proud to own: there is at times the same vigorous outbreak against immorality and injustice-the manly use of the weapon, satire, against vice-the same elevation of thought when looking through nature up to nature's God-the same accuracy in painting objects, dignified though familiar-and the same playful fancy setting off seriousness of purpose. If the Task had not been written, perhaps the Village Curate might never have been produced; but if it had preceded the work of the mightier genius, the claims of Hurdis to a chief place among the poets would have been more readily acknowledged.

The "Favourite Village" may be considered as a sequel to the "Village Curate;" and as with sequels generally, though of more even merit and more highly polished it is by no means so vigorous or effective as the earlier production.

FROM THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE.

THE sight of Winter's superb ocean left, Me pleases much the bustle of the port; The toil and clamour of the prosp'rous bark, Safe landing on the wharf with brisk dispatch Her sable cargo from the northern mine: The neater vessel her capacious lap Filling with grain, or (stowage ponderous) The mealy sack of the contiguous mill, Welcome supply to the far-distant camp, Or wind-bound fleet of war; the slothful barge Slug-like conveying from the sloop her deals, Another from the sloven brig her load Of nauseous grocery, abundant store For ev'ry village on the banks of Ouse.

FROM THE VILLAGE CURATE.

A TRUCE to thought,

And come, Alcanor, Julia, Isabel,

Eliza come, and let us o'er the fields,

Across the down, or through the shelving wood,
Wind our uncertain way. Let fancy lead,
And be it ours to follow, and admire,
As well we may, the graces infinite
Of nature. Lay aside the sweet resource
Which winter needs, and may at will obtain,
Of authors chaste and good, and let us read
The living page, whose ev'ry character
Delights and gives us wisdom. Not a tree,
A plant, a leaf, a blossom, but contains
A folio volume. We may read, and read,
And read again, and still find something new,
Something to please, and something to instruct,
E'en in the noisome weed. See, ere we pass
Alcanor's threshold, to the curious eye
A little monitor presents her page

Of choice instruction, with her snowy bells,
The lily of the vale. She nor affects
The public walk, nor gaze of mid-day sun.
She to no state or dignity aspires,
But silent and alone puts on her suit,

And sheds her lasting perfume, but for which
We had not known there was a thing so sweet
Hid in the gloomy shade. So when the blast
Her sister tribes confounds, and to the earth
Stoop their high heads that vainly were expos'd,
She feels it not, but flourishes anew,

Still shelter'd and secure. And so the storm,
That makes the high elm couch, and rends the oak,
The humble lily spares. A thousand blows,
Which shake the lofty monarch on his throne,
We lesser folk feel not. Keen are the pains
Advancement often brings. To be secure,
Be humble; to be happy, be content.

*

*

*

*

Away, we loiter. Without notice pass

*

The sleepy crocus, and the staring daisy,
The courtier of the sun. What find we there?

The love-sick cowslip, which her head inclines
To hide a bleeding heart. And here's the meek
And soft-ey'd primrose. Dandelion this,

A college youth who flashes for a day
All gold; anon he doffs his gaudy suit,
Touch'd by the magic hand of some grave Bishop,
And all at once, by commutation strange,
Becomes a Reverend Divine. How sleek!
How full of grace! and in that globous wig,
So nicely trimm'd, unfathomable stores,
No doubt, of erudition most profound.
Each hair is learned, and his awful phiz,
A well-drawn title-page, gives large account
Of matters strangely complicate within.
Place the two doctors each by each, my friends,
Which is the better? say. I blame not you,
Ye powder'd periwigs, which hardly hide,
With glossy suit and well-fed paunch to boot,
The understanding lean and beggarly.
But let me tell you, in the pompous globe,
Which rounds the dandelion's head, is couch'd
Divinity most rare. I never pass

But he instructs me with a still discourse,
That more persuades than all the vacant noise
Of pulpit rhetoric; for vacant 'tis,

And vacant must it be, by vacant heads
Supported.

Leave we them to mend, and mark

The melancholy hyacinth, that weeps

All night, and never lifts an eye all day.

How gay this meadow !—like a gamesome boy

New cloth'd, his locks fresh comb'd and powder'd, he All health and spirits. Scarce so many stars

Shine in the azure canopy of heav'n,

As king-cups here are scatter'd, interspers'd
With silver daisies.

See, the toiling hind

With many a sturdy stroke cuts up at last

The tough and sinewy furze. How hard he fought

To fell the glory of the barren waste!

For what more noble than the vernal furze

With golden baskets hung? Approach it not,

For ev'ry blossom has a troop of swords

Drawn to defend it.

'Tis the treasury

PP