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Are there buds on our willow-tree?
Buds and birds on our trysting-tree? Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing !
Have you met the honey-bee, Circling upon rapid wing,
Round the angler's trysting-tree? Up, sweet thrushes, up and see ! Are there bees at our willow-tree ? Birds and bees at the trysting-tree ?
Where, in a brook,
For a bit,
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing !
Are the fountains gushing free ?
Through the angler's trysting-tree ?
Wind or calm at our trysting-tree ?
Wile us with a merry glee;
To the angler's trysting-tree.
We have gentles in a horn,
We have paste and worms too ; We can watch both night and morn, Suffer rain and storms too;
None do here
Watch our quill :
THOMAS TOD STODDART.
If the sun's excessive heat
Make our bodies swelter, To an osier hedge we get, For a friendly shelter ;
Where, in a dike,
Without grudging ;
Or we sometimes pass an hour
Under a green willow,
Where we may
Are but toys,
Breeds no ill,
Ere Aurora's peeping ;
Then we go
As the Thames,
VERSES IN PRAISE OF ANGLING.
When we please to walk abroad
For our recreation,
Full of delectation,
QUIVERING fears, heart-tearing cares,
Fly, fly to courts,
Fly to fond worldlings' sports,
Where mirth's but mummery,
Fly from our country pastimes, fly,
Come, serene looks,
Clear as the crystal brooks,
Here are no entrapping baits
Unless it be
The fond credulity
Peace and a secure mind,
Nor envy, 'less among
Abused mortals ! did you know
Go, let the diving negro seek
We all pearls scorn
Save what the dewy morn Where winds, sometimes, our woods perhaps may Congeals upon each little spire of grass, shake,
Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass ; But blustering care could never tempest make; And gold ne'er here appears, Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,
Save what the yellow Ceres bears. Saving of fountains that glide by us.
Blest silent groves, 0, may you be, Here's no fantastic mask nor dance,
Forever, mirth's best nursery !
May pure contents
Forever pitch their tents
Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these Two harmless lambs are butting one the other,
mountains ! Which done, both bleating run, cach to his mother; And peace still slumber by these purling fountains And wounds are never found,
Which we may every year
SIR HENRY WOTTOX
rose from le untouched sleep
her soft brown hair,
The stav of love more shines alone,
Cool zephys crisp the sea;
Va serenade for thee.
[The ruinous castle of Norham (anciently called Ubbanford) is situated on the southern bank of the Tweed, about six miles above Berwick, and where that river is still the boundary between Eng. land and Scotland. The extent of its ruins, as well as its historical importance, shows it to have been a place of magnificence as well as strength. Edward I. resided there when he was created umpire of the dispute concerning the Scottish succession. It was repeatedly taken and retaken during the wars between England and Scotland, and, in leed, scarce any happened in which it had not a principal share. Norham Castle is situated on a steep bank. which overhangs the river. The ruins of the castle are at present considerable, as well as picturesque. They consist of a large shattered tower, with many vaults, and fragnients of other edifices, enclosed within an outward wall of great circuit.)
A horseman, darting from the crowd,
Before the dark array.
His bugle-horn he blew ;
For well the blast he knew ; And joyfully that knight did call To sewer, equire, and seneschal.
Day set on Norham's castled steep,
And Cheviot's mountains lone :
In yellow lustre shone.
Seemed forms of giant height;
In lines of dazzling light.
“Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie,
Bring pasties of the doe,
And all our trumpets blow;
Lord Marmion waits below." Then to the castle's lower ward
Sped forty yeomen tall, The iron-studded gates un barred, Raised the portcullis' ponderous guard, The lofty palisade unsparred,
And let the drawbridge fall.
St. George's banner, broad and gay,
Less bright, and less, was flung; The evening gale had scarce the power To wave it on the donjon tower,
So heavily it hung. The scouts had parted on their search,
The castle gates were barrel ; Above the gloomy portal arch, Timing his footsteps to a march,
The warder kept his giard ; Low humming, as he paced along, Some ancient Border gathering-song.
Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode,
But more through toil than age ;
A distant trampling sound he hears ; He looks abroad, and soon appears, O'er Horncliff hill, a plump of spears,
Beneath a pennon gay ;