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Or said 'Good-morning!' to a passer-by,
She always had a rival in her eye.
Then jealousy would seemingly complain,
And urge to vows ere all was right again :
But when he found her heart indeed his own,
He quickly made his foolish follies known;
And, like a young bird children nurse in play,
He teased and plagued her till she pined away.
He still loved on, but thought it mighty fun
To prove her fondness when the maid was won.
From every night to once a week they met,
And then excuses made it longer yet:
Sometimes he could not stay as heretofore,
But called her out to whisper at the door;
And turned away and smiled, self-satisfied
To see the tear-drops which she strove to hide.
He danced with other girls, his pride to please,
And seemed to glory in the chance to tease;
Then looked around him with a leering eye,
And drank their healths when she was sitting by:
Deep blushes came across her face the while,
And tears would start while she essayed to smile.
And oft when nigh a soldier he has sat,
He'd laugh, and put the colors on his hat;
But he too great a coward was to go,
For none but cowards do use women so:

'T was only to perplex the heart he'd won,

For no one cause but insolence and fun.

Thus did he wound her, though she loved him still,

And patiently put up with every ill ;
Nursing the venom of that speckled snake
About her heart, till it was like to break.
Yet when I cautioned her of love's distress,
And bade her notice the wild fellow less,
Saying she showed her love too much by half,
'Mary, you jest!' she said, and made a laugh.

SALLY AND HER FRIEND VISIT A FORTUNE-TELLER. — THAT CLEVER OLD WOMAN DESCRIBED. WITCH SUPERSTITIONS.

Frequent on Sabbath-days, in pleasant weather, We went to walk and talk of love together; And often sought a hut beside the wood, That from the town a gossip's minute stood. Here an old woman, for some small rewards, Would tell our fortunes both by cups and cards. Some called her witch, and whispered all they dare Of mighty things that had been noticed there; Witches of every shape, that used to meet To count the stars, or muttered charms repeat. Woodmen, in Winter, as they passed the road, Have vowed they've seen some crawling like a toad; And some, like owlets, veering over-head, Shrieking enough to fright the very dead.

Yet she to us appeared like other folks, A droll old woman, full of tales and jokes ; And if the old dame's tales were darkly meant, I ne'er perceived it, though I often went. Deal as she might with Satan's evil powers, She read her Bible, and was fond of flowers. She went to church as other people may, And knelt and prayed -though witches cannot pray: She had her ague-charms, and old receipts

For wounds and bruises labor often meets ;
And gathered wild-flowers in her summer toils,
To make an ointment that was famed for miles;
And many a one hath owned her lowly skill,
Who dared not run a doctor's longer bill.
But as to ill-got knowledge of the sky,
She was as innocent as you or I.

She might, no doubt, with pointed finger show
The Shepherd's Lamp, which even children know;
And doubtless loved, when journeying from the
To see it rising soon as day was down. [town,
The Tailor's Yard-band, which hangs streaming
The pale Night-wagon driving down the sky, [high,
And Butcher's Cleaver, or the Seven Stars,
With shooting North-lights, 'tokening bloody wars;
She might know these, which if 't is sin to know,
Then everybody is a witch below.

Well, those are good that never stoop to wrong,
And blessed are they that 'scape an evil tongue.
SALLY TORMENTED INTO A DECLINE; AN AFFECTING PICTURE.

Thus to young hopes she would her fortunes tell, But Sally quickly knew her own too well! Her tears and sighs did all too fruitless prove, To keep the Shepherd to his vows of love : He came to vex her oft and would not stay, But shut the door again and laughed away. As she was spotless and a maiden still, Conscience ne'er told him that the deed was ill; And he made promises, to give her pain,

Just for the sake of breaking them again.

On Winter's nights for hours I've known her stand,
Listening, with door half open in her hand;
Till, what with colds and an uneasy mind,
Her beauty faded and her health declined:
The rose, that lovers call so, left her face,
And the pale, sickly lily took its place.
Thus she went on, poor melancholy thing!
Just like a bud that's injured in the Spring,
That may live on to see the coming day-
A feeble blossom, leaning on decay.

She sorrowed on, and worse and worse she grew,

And strength declined its labor to pursue :
Yet, wishing still her sorrows to conceal,
She turned with feeble hand her spinning-wheel;
Till, weak, and weary, when no one was by,
She'd lean her backward in her chair to cry.

At length her parents, though with added fears,
Saw through her heart-throbs and her secret tears;
And when they found the only crime was love,
They joked at times, and would at times reprove —
Saying, if that were all the world possessed
For causing troubles, few would be distressed.
But all was vain! She put her best looks on [gone;
When they were there, and grieved when they were
Till toil and fretting brought her down so low,
That she was forced her labor to forego.

CHILDREN'S ARTLESS SYMPATHY; MOTHER PREACHES PATIENCE; JOB; RUTH; SALLY'S BIBLE. SHE WASTES AWAY. Her friends, no longer with false hopes beguiled, Feared for the danger of their troubled child;

Her children-sisters oft hung round her chair,
In which she leaned in silence and despair:
Her troubled looks they could not understand,
But tried to raise her head from off her hand,
And asked the reason why she sat so still,
Or if aught wronged her that had made her ill.
She kissed their prattling lips with struggling sighs,
While anguish rushed for freedom to her eyes;
Then would she turn away from friends and kin,
To hide the trouble that her heart was in.
They eked her sorrow with her lover's name,
Asking the reason why he never came ;
Bringing up childish memories to her cost-
Things they had missed, and pleasures she had lost.
Thus they would urge - ending with scornful brow-
'A naughty man! he brings us nothing now.'
She stopped their mouths with kisses and with sighs,
And turned her face again to hide her eyes.

Her mother talked of patience all in vain,
And read Job's troubles o'er and o'er again;
Then turned to love, and read the book of Ruth,
Making excuses for the faults of youth;
Saying how she in life's young joys was crossed,
And both a lover and a husband lost;
Yet still hoped on, and overlooked the past,
And loved her mother, and was blessed at last.
And if, said she, you trust in God and pray,
You may be happy in the end as they.
Then she herself would often try to read
The Bible comforts in the hour of need;
But soon she failed its cheering truths to look,
And grew so weak she scarce could lift the book.
Life to a spider's web was worn and spun,
And e'en her hands, if lifted to the sun,
Were both so wasted, that, to fancy's view,
The light would almost seem to glimmer through.

-

HER LOVER REPENTS; INTERVIEW; TOO LATE; VAIN HOPES; GOSSIPS; SALLY DIES.-THH BRIDAL CHANGES TO A FUNERAL.

Her lover, by and by, his folly mourned, His conscience pricked him, or his love returned: He begged and prayed, and wished again to be Once more admitted to her company.

The gossips, when they met, would still agree
To shake their heads and say, 't would never be !
Muttering o'er doubts they would not urge aloud,
Saying her bride-dress would turn out a shroud.
God knows, they but too truly prophesied ;
For, ere it came, she sickened, sunk, and died!
Upon that very morn that was to see
The wedding sunshine and festivity,
Death did so gently his cold fingers lay
Upon her bosom, that she swooned away
Without a groan; and, but for us that wept
About her bed, you might have thought she slept.
For marriage-greetings parents' sorrows fell,
And marriage-peals changed to a passing-bell!
Her young sun set 'neath sorrow's gloomy cloud :
Wed to the grave, her bride-sheets were a shroud.
And I, instead of joining in the throng
Of merry faces, and a wedding song -
Instead of seeing her a bride become,

I bore the pall up to her last long home;
And heard the old clerk's melancholy stave,
Who sang the psalm bareheaded by her grave.

CONCLUSION OF THE MOTHER'S STORY.- SALLY'S TOMB-STONE.

Thus died poor Sally on her wedding-day — An April bud that could not see the May.

I often stand to gaze upon the stone,

Whene'er I journey to the church alone,

Where gold-winged cherubs hold a flowery wreath
Over a prayer-book open underneath;

Upon whose leaves was writ, at her request,
In golden letters, -Here the weary rest.'

Last Sabbath-day but one, I loitered there, Before the bells had chimed the hour of prayer: Stopping, as pity seemly did demand,

I wrapped my apron-corner round my hand,
And pulled the nettles that had overgrown
The verse, and rambled half-way up the stone;
And then at eve, when ye were at the door,
Whispering with sweethearts your love-secrets o'er,
I took my glasses to amuse myself,

And reached the Bible down from off the shelf

The parents thought 't would save their sinking child, To read the text, and look the psalms among,

For trouble's hopes are quickly reconciled

So let him come. I sat beside her bed;

He asked her how she was, and hung his head :
The tears burst from her eyes; she could not speak.
Upon her hand her sorrow-wasted cheek
She leaned; and, when he did his sins recall,
She kissed him fondly, and forgave him all, -
Then smiled, and bowed her faded face to weep,
And, wearied out, sank down like one asleep;
Then rose again like one awoke from pain,
And gazed on him and me- and wept again;
Then on her bosom laid her wasted hand,
Sighing a language brutes might understand!

Yet hopes were fed, though but the mask of pain,
And she recovered, and got out again.
She seemed so well, they e'en began to name
The wedding-day. "T was set, but ere it came,

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Rustic Ballad

for September.

BLOOMFIELD'S "HARVEST-HOME.”

WHAT gossips prattled in the sun,

Who talked him fairly down,

Up, memory! tell; 't is Suffolk fun,

And lingo of their own.

Ah! Judie Twitchel! though thou 'rt dead,
With thee the tale begins;

For still seem thrumming in my head
The rattling of thy pins!

Thou queen of knitters; for a ball

Of worsted was thy pride;

With dangling stockings great and small,
And world of clack beside!

'We did so laugh; the moon shone bright;
More fun you never knew ;

"T was Farmer Cheerum's Horkey 2 night, And I, and Grace, and Sue

'But bring a stool, sit round about,

And, boys, be quiet, pray;

And let me tell my story out;

"I was sitch a merry day!

The butcher whistled at the door,

And brought a load of meat;

Boys rubbed their hands, and cried, "there's more," Dogs wagged their tails to see 't.

'On went the boilers till the hake 3 Had much ado to bear 'em ;

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'Creak went the Jack; the cats were scared;

We had not time to heed 'em,

The owd hins cackled in the yard,

For we forgot to feed 'em!

Yet 't was not I, as I may say,

Because as how, d'ye see,

I only helped there for the day;
They cou'd n't lay 't to me.
'Now Mrs. Cheerum's best lace cap
Was mounted on her head;
Guests at the door began to rap,

And now the cloth was spread.
Then clatter went the earthen plates-
"Mind, Judie," was the cry;

I could have cop't4 them at their pates! "Trenchers for me," said I.

"That look so clean upon the ledge,
And never mind a fall;

Nor never turn a sharp knife's edge; —
But fashion rules us all."

Home came the jovial Horkey load,
Last of the whole year's crop ;

And Grace amongst the green boughs rode
Right plump upon the top.

This way and that the wagon reeled,
And never queen rode higher;

Her cheeks were colored in the field,
And ours before the fire.

"The laughing harvest-folks and John
Came in and looked askew ;

"T was my red face that set them on, And then they leered at Sue.

'And Farmer Cheerum went, good man, And broached the Horkey beer;

And sitch a mort 5 of folk began

To eat up our good cheer.

"Says he, "Thank God for what's before us; That thus we meet agen."

The mingling voices, like a chorus,
Joined cheerfully, "Amen."

"Welcome and plenty, there they found 'em ; The ribs of beef grew light;

And puddings-till the boys got round 'em ; And then they vanished quite !

'Now all the guests, with Farmer Crouder, Began to prate of corn;

And we found out they talked the louder,

The oftener passed the horn.

'Out came the nuts; we set a cracking;

The ale came round our way;

By gom, we women fell a clacking

As loud again as they.

"John sung "Old Benbow" loud and strong,

And I, "C The Constant Swain ;"

"Cheer up my Lads," was Simon's song,

"We'll conquer them again."

'Now twelve o'clock was drawing nigh, And all in merry cue;

I knocked the cask, "O, ho!" said I, "We've almost conquered you."

'My lord begged round, and held his hat; Says Farmer Gruff, says he,

"There's many a lord, Sam, I know that, Has begged as well as thee."

'Bump in his hat the shillings tumbled All round among the folks ;

"Laugh if you wool," said Sam, and mumbled, "You pay for all your jokes."

'Joint stock, you know, among the men,

To drink at their own charges;

So up they got full drive, and then

Went out to halloo largess.7

'And sure enough the noise they made! -
But let me mind my tale;
We followed them, we wor'nt afraid,
We 'ad all been drinking ale.

'As they stood hallooing back to back, We, lightly as a feather,

Went sliding round, and in a crack

Had pinned their coats together.

"T was near upon 't as light as noon;
"A largess," on the hill,

They shouted to the full round moon,
I think I hear 'em still!

But when they found the trick, my stars!
They well knew who to blame;

Our giggles turned to ha, ha, ha's,
And arter us they came.

'Grace by the tumbril made a squat,
Then ran as Sam came by;

They said she could not run for fat;
I know she did not try.

Sue round the neat-house 8 squalling ran,
Where Simon scarcely dare;

1

He stopt,
"By gom there's suffen there!"

for he's a fearful man

And off set John, with all his might, To chase me down the yard, Till I was nearly gran'd 10 outright; He hugged so woundly hard.

Still they kept up the race and laugh, And round the house we flew ; But hark ye! the best fun by half Was Simon arter Sue.

'She cared not, dark nor light, not she,

So, near the dairy door

She passed a clean white hog, you see, They'd kilt the day before.

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High on the spirket" there it hung, Now, Susie what can save ye?" Round the cold pig his arms he flung, And cried, "Ah! here I have ye." The farmers heard what Simon said, And what a noise! good lack! Some almost laughed themselves to dead, And others clapt his back.

'We all at once began to tell

What fun we had aboard;

But Simon stood our jeers right well;
-He fell asleep and snored.

Then in his button-hole upright
Did Farmer Crouder put

A slip of paper twisted tight,
And held the candle to 't.

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The clock struck one-some talked of parting, Some said it was a sin,

And hitched their chairs;- but those for starting
Now let the moonlight in.

'Owd women, loitering for the nonce, 12
Stood praising the fine weather;
The men-folks took the hint at once
To kiss them altogether.

'And out ran every soul beside,

A shanny-pated 13 crew;
Owd folks could neither run nor hide,
So some ketched one, some tew.
"They skriggled and began to scold,

But laughing got the master;

Some quackling cried, "Let go your hold!"
The farmers held the faster.

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"Our shadows helter-skelter danced

About the moonlight ground;
The wandering sheep, as on we pranced,
Got up and gazed around.

And well they might-till Farmer Cheerum,
Now with a hearty glee,

Bade all good morn as he came near 'em,
And then to bed went he.

'Then off we strolled this way and that,
With merry voices ringing;
And echo answered us right pat,

As home we rambled singing.

For, when we laughed, it laughed again,
And to our own doors followed!
"Yo, ho!" we cried; "Yo, ho!" so plain
The misty meadow hallooed.

That's all my tale, and all the fun;
Come, turn your wheels about;
My worsted, see! - that's nicely done,
Just held my story out!'

Poor Judie ! - thus time knits or spins
The worsted from life's ball!

Death stopped thy tales, and stopped thy pins, - And so he 'll serve us all.

NOTES, 1-13. Judie Twitchel lived with a relative of Bloomfield, at Honington. Horkey is the name given, in Suffolk, England, to the Harvest-Home Feast. — Hake, a sliding pot-hook; cop't, thrown; sitch a mort, such a number; 'lord,' the leader of the reapers, who collected the largess, and led the troop that went forth to halloo, after an ancient, perhaps a heathen custom; neat-house, cowhouse; suffen, something; gran'd, strangled; spirket, iron hook; nonce, purpose; shanny, giddy.

Psalm and Lessons for September.

QUARLES'S PSALM 42: 2.

LONGING TO SEE GOD.

[be

WHAT is the soul the better to be tined
With holy fire? what boots it to be coined
With Heaven's own stamp? what 'vantage can there
To souls of heaven-descended pedigree,

More than to beasts that grovel? are not they
Fed by the Almighty's hand? and every day
Filled with his blessings too? do they not see
God in his creatures, as direct as we?

Do they not taste Thee? hear Thee? nay, what sense
Is not partaker of thy excellence?

What more do we? alas! what serves our reason,
But, like dark lanterns, to accomplish treason
With greater closeness? It affords no light,
Brings thee no nearer to our purblind sight :
No pleasure rises up the least degree,

Great God! but in the nearer view of Thee! ** *
If those refulgent beams of heaven's great light
Gild not the day, what is the day but night?
The drowsy shepherd sleeps, flowers droop and fade;
The birds are sullen, and the beasts are sad :
But if bright Titan dart his golden ray,
And with his riches glorify the day,

The jolly shepherds pipe; flowers freshly spring;
The beasts grow gamesome, and the birds they sing.
Thou art my sun, great God! O, when shall I
View the full beams of thy meridian eye?
Draw, draw this fleshly curtain, that denies
The gracious presence of thy glorious eyes;
Or give me faith; and, by the eye of grace,
I shall behold Thee, though not face to face.

POPE'S "MUTUAL DEPENDENCE.” HAS God, thou fool! worked solely for thy good, Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food? Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn For him as kindly spreads the flowery lawn: Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings? Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat? Loves of his own and raptures swell the note. The bounding steed you pompously bestride Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride. Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain? The birds of heaven shall vindicate their grain. Thine the full harvest of the golden year? Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer: The hog, that ploughs not, nor obeys thy call, Lives on the labors of this lord of all.

Know, Nature's children all divide her care;

The fur that warms a monarch warmed a bear.
While man exclaims, 'See all things for my use!'
'See man for mine!' replies a pampered goose:
And just as short of reason he must fall,
Who thinks all made for one, not one for all.

Grant that the powerful still the weak control;
Be man the wit and tyrant of the whole :
Nature that tyrant checks; he only knows
And helps another creature's wants and woes.
Say, will the falcon, stooping from above,
Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove?
Admires the jay the insect's gilded wings?
Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings?
Man cares for all: to birds he gives his woods,
To beasts his pastures, and to fish his floods;
For some his interest prompts him to provide,
For more his pleasure, yet for more his pride:
All feed on one vain patron, and enjoy
The extensive blessing of his luxury.
That very life his learned hunger craves,
He saves from famine, from the savage saves;
Nay, feasts the animal he dooms his feast,
And till he ends the being, makes it blest;
Which sees no more the stroke, or feels the pain,
Than favored man by touch ethereal slain.
The creature had his feast of life before ;
Thou too must perish, when thy feast is o'er !

GRAHAME'S "SABBATH.”

HAIL, Sabbath! thee I hail!- the poor man's day! On other days the man of toil is doomed To eat his joyless bread lonely, the ground Both seat and board, screened from the winter's cold And summer's heat by neighboring hedge or tree; But on this day, embosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meals with those he loves; With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy Of giving thanks to God—not thanks of form, A word and a grimace, but reverently With covered face and upward, earnest eye! Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail the poor man's day! The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air pure from the city's smoke; While wandering slowly up the river side, He meditates on Him whose power he marks In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around the roots; - and while he thus surveys With elevated joy each rural charm,

He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
To reach those realms where Sabbath never ends.**

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