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POEMS; BY THE REV. G. CRABBE. VOL. II. ONE day he lighter seemed, and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of iheir lot; They spoke with cheerfulness, and seemed to think, Yet said not so—“ Perhaps he will not sink.” A sudden brightness in his look appeared, A sudden vigour in his voice was heard ;She had been reading in the Book of Prayer, And led him forth, and placed him in his chair; Lively he seemed, and spoke of all he knew, The friendly many, and the favourite few; Nor one that day did he to mind recall, But she has treasured, and she loves them all : When in her way she meets them, they appear Peculiar people-- Death has made them dear. He named his friends, but then his hands she prest, And fondly whispered—“ Thou must go to rest." “I go,” he said; but as he spoke, she found His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound! Then gazed affrighted; but she caught a last, A dying look of love, and all was past!

She placed a decent stone his grave above,
Neatly engraved-an offering of her love;
For that she wrought, for that forsouk her bed,
Awake alike to duty, and the dead;
She would have grieved had friends presumed to spare
The last assistance—'twas her proper care.

Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;
But if observer pass, will take her rouod,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.

Borough; Church, Letter II, puge 33. No.38.


WELL, reckless how my life pass o'er,

Unmoved by praises or by blame,
And cold to all I sought before,

The look of love the voice of fame;
Since I have had my little day

Of joy and hope, of pride and mirth,
It matters not how soon I lay.

My head within my kindred earth.
A lengthened life I would not ask,

For what is life to one like me?
Who cannot wear the worldling's mask,

Nor sacrifice sincerity?
What but a scene of wrongs and terrors,

Where man must tyrannize or bend;
Of mighty crimes and petty errors,

Which only in the grave may end !
Oct. 1820.



YES! vain is absence, vain are years,

Vain coldness-folly-scorn,
To check my silent, secret tears,

To bid me cease to mourn.
Thou wert my earliest, sweetest dream

When life and love were new;
Shedding on Being's buoyant stream

Light that from feeling grew.
Thou didst not know me, and I lost

The guerdon rich I sought :
What was that disappointment's cost ?

A heart with rapture fraught!
And thou must answer for each pang

That haunts me even now,-
The cold chills on my heart that hang,

And the wrinkles on my brow!
Oct. 1820


COME, honest Jobson! whet your scythe,

And mow with vigorous sweep the grass :-
Yet stay, old man, a heart so blythe

Deserves a jovial starting glass.
Oft in my boyhood I have stood
To catch thy wild, yet

, pleasing song,
While o'er the lawn in blythesome mood

You pushed the ponderous roll along!
Aud oft my youthful, fluttering heart,

Would throb thy wonderous tales to hear,
And with instinctive terror start

If but the breeze came rustling near!
And many a summer-eve beneath

The shade of yon Laburnum tree,
Crowned with a gay and golden wreath,

I've reigned the monarch of thy knee!
Ah, Jobson —those-experience proves,

Were far the happiest hours of life :
Time now with flagging pinion moves,

And scatters bare, and care, and strife.
But cheer, old man! -nay-clear thy brow,

Whilst í a single doit possess,
Thou shalt not feel the winter's snow,

Nor find thy little comforts less.
June 3, 1820.



Round Love's Elysian bowers

The fairest prospects rise;
There bloom the sweetest flowers,

There shine the purest skies;
And joy and rapture gild awhile
The cloudless heaven of Beauty's smile.

Montgomery. THE mists of the morning still hung on the hill,

And floated o'er woodland and plain :
The shadowy vapours were fitting and chill,
And the owlet had ceased his wild strain.

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