« ElőzőTovább »
Through which his mother as a bride had pass'd.
The grave was closed; but still the widow sat
Upon a sod beside, and silently
(Her's was not grief that words had comfort for)
The funeral train pass'd on, and she was left
Alone amid the tombs; but once she look'd
Towards the shadowy lane, then turn'd again,
As desolate and sick at heart, to where
Her help, her hope, her child, lay dead together!
She went home to her lonely room. Next morn
Some enter'd it, and there she sat,
Her white hair hanging o'er the wither'd hands
On which her pale face leant; the Bible lay
Open beside, but blister'd were the leaves
With two or three large tears, which had dried in:
Oh, happy she had not survived her child!
And many pitied her, for she had spent
Her little savings, and she had no friends;
But strangers made her grave in that church-yard,
And where her sailor slept, there slept his mother!
SMALL talk is indispensable at routs,
But more so at a little coterie,
Where friends, in number eight-or thereabout-
Meet to enjoy loquacity and tea.
If small talk were abolish'd, I've my doubts
If ladies would survive to fifty-three;
Nor shall the stigma, ladies, fall on you,
Men love a little bit of small talk too.
What changes there would be, if no tongues ran
Except in sober sense and conversation;
There's many a communicative man
Would take to silence and to cogitation. "Twould stop old maids (if aught that's earthly can) And cut the thread of many an oration:
Old bachelors would daudle through the day,
And go on in a very humdrum way.
What would become of those who, when at prayers. Lean down their heads, and whisper in their pews; Those at the play who give themselves such airs,
Careful each celebrated speech to lose?
How would the poor man suffer, who prepares
For small snug parties which he can't refuse?
What would become of all the gay pursuits,
If all gay people suddenly turn'd mutes?
Partners at balls would look extremely blue,
While waiting for their turn to point the toe;
Youths tête-à-tête would scarce know what to do,
Over their juice of grape, or juice of sloe :
Two people in a chaise might travel through
England and Wales-and they in fact might go
Over the continent, and all the way
Be confidential once or twice a-day.
Lovers would think it very hard, I fear,
If sober sense they were condemn'd to speak;
Husbands and wives a voice would seldom hear,
Unless it happen'd to be washing week;
The language of the eyes, I think, 'tis clear,
Old married people very seldom seek:
(Couples oft disagree, I'm told)—but this
Is just by way of a parenthesis.
How very peaceable we should be then,
None would have words, even bullies would be dumb;
How changed would be the busy hum of men;
The fame of certain wits would prove a hum;
Tatlers, deprived of speech, would seize a pen,
They are a nuisance not to be o'ercome;
Schemers the credulous no more would balk,
For schemes would very rarely end in talk.
These changes are not all;-I'll not proceed, I've mention'd quite enough in my narration; They'd be so universal, that indeed
They'd baffle any man's investigation. To calculate them all-I must exceed
George Bidder, who is famed for calculation: Arithmetic to him's a pleasant game"He lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came!" T. H. BAILEY.
DEAR COUSIN,-I write this in haste,
To beg you will get for Mamma
A pot of best Jessamine paste,
And a pair of shoe-buckles for "Pa,"
At Exeter Change;-then just pop
Into Aldersgate-street for the prints-
And, while you are there, you can stop
For a skein of white worsted at Flint's.
Papa wants a new razor-strop,
And Mamma wants a Chinchelli muff;
Little Bobby's in want of a top,
And my aunt wants six pen'orth of snuff.
Just call in St. Martin's-le-Grand
For some goggles for Mary (who squints,)
Get a pound of bees-wax in the Strand,
And the skein of white worsted at Flint's.
And while you are there, you may stop
For some souchong in Monument Yard;
And while you are there, you can pop
Into Mary'bone-street for some lard;
And while you are there, you can call
For some silk, of the latest new tints,
At the mercer's not far from Whitehall-
And remember the worsted at Flint's.
And while you are there, 't were as well
If you'd call in Whitechapel, to see
For the needles; and then in Pall Mall
For some lavender water for me:
And while you are there, you can go
To Wapping, to old Mr. Clint's-
But all this you can easily do,
When you get the white worsted at Flint's.
I send in this parcel, from Bet,
An old spelling-book to be bound,
A cornelian brooch to be set,
And some razors of Pa's to be ground.-
O dear! what a memory have I-
Notwithstanding all Deborah's hints,
I've forgotten to tell you to buy
A skein of white worsted at Flint's.
EPISTLE TO A COUNTRY COUSIN.
THIS morning I sent by the coach
Your basket of various wants; And I trust that I shall not encroach,
By inclosing a shawl of your aunt's. It was sent to be dyed a deep blue,
But could not-you need not say whyFor the fact is, (I only tell you,)
"T was too old and too shabby to dye.
All your excellent pickles are done;
I am glad that the season draws near,
When you think of your dear absent one,
Who cannot partake of your cheer,
Except in the shape of goose-pie,
A turkey, or basket of game,
And such things as one cannot buy-
In London scarce known but by name:
Such as thick bottled-cream and spice-cake;
Your wine sours deliciously fine;
The sweetmeats they tell me you make,
Not to mention your gooseberry wine,
Which Sir Thomas, my intimate friend,
Protested again and again, (As he begg'd for some more I would send) Was superior to any Champaigne.
A pot of such raspberry jam
As yours, I have sought for in vain; And sure such a nice little ham
I never shall meet with again,
As that which was sent by your ma-
Bless me! I had nearly forgot,
To beg you will thank your papa
For the couple of wild-ducks he shot.
I should like you to get me a dog
Perhaps you've a good one to spare: You can send it by some stupid log,
That will bring it scot-free; but take care That he does not expect a spare bed: I will give him a dinner, or so I got nothing by harbouring Ned, Some two or three winters ago.
There's a man that makes nice walking-sticks,
It is not many miles from your farm;
I wish you'd ride over, and fix
On one like my uncle's at Yarm. And get me a skin nicely dress'd
A sheep's, buck, or doe's, I don't care; For rugs they're decidedly best
What I purchase in London soon wear.
For my time I have made you no charge,
Nor coach-hire for popping about;
But I'll not on such trifles enlarge-
You will pay me in some way, no doubt.