ACCEPT," a generous Stranger said,—
Touch'd by the pages he had read,—
"Accept, since you at length have found
Joy-giving Health on Hampshire ground;
Hampshire, where Health delights to reign,
The Goddess of the Wood and Plain :
Accept a little sylvan spot,
Where you may build your Poet's Cot:
Nay where, already cut and dried,
A river running close beside,
With valley low and mountain high,】
And many a capability,
A Cot you'll find, which little care
And no great cost may soon repair:
That Cot is yours, and garden ground;
But first survey the Scene around."
Our grateful Poet bow'd the head
To all the generous Stranger said;
And Fancy, with her usual charm,
Resolv'd to keep the Subject warm;
Pursu'd in sleep the tempting theme,
And sketch'd her Cottage in a Dream;
* This Poem appears in page 30 of the present Volume.
And they who know her power can tell
Her style of Architecture well;
Nor wonder, if, in labour light,
Her work was finish'd in a night.
Auspicious to the Poet's prayer,
The morning came, and it was fair;
For never did Aurora shine
Or tint more exquisitely fine :
And though the gale of Autumn blew,
And her rich clouding swiftly flew;
Now dark and menacing a storm,
Striding the Sun in giant form;
And now, more beauteous to behold,
The colours dipp'd in heavenly gold.
'Twas a Bard's Morn, when earth and sky
The richest scenery supply.
Oh, Man! like thy much-chequer'd day,
Now with heart-cheering prospect gay;
Envelop'd now in awful gloom,
Pointing the prospect to the tomb;
Thence bursting forth again to light,
Making the prospect doubly bright.
Yet more, it was the day decreed,
With chosen Friend on Forest Steed,
To view the generous Stranger's Cot,
And Land of Promise on the spot.
Forth then they went o'er hill and dale,
And stubborn heath and ductile vale.
With hope elate, and weather fair,
A few hours' riding took them there.
And now our Poet view'd his ground,
Enter'd the premises, and found
The terra firma fair and good;
Enough of garden, orchard, wood;
Enough of water, were it freed
From straggling sedge and wanton weed:
And for the Cot, 't was strong and stout,
And snug within, and warm without;
And the blest southern Sun his ray
Shot in aslant at early day:
A rural church, a parsonage near,
And baronry of grander air;
And, what the Poet thought most sweet,
The scenery around complete;
And, what was still to him more dear,
A nest of little dwellings near,
Where the small neighbourhood, at ease,
Did seem to prosper like their trees;
While ruddy cheek, and sparkling eye,
Bespoke a healthy peasantry,
With whom the Bard his hours might share,
And in hard times relieve their care;
For, from a morsel split in twain,
Enough for nature may remain.
Thus, at a glance, did all things seem
To realize our Poet's Dream.
"A few additions to all this,"
Observ'd the Friend, "were not amiss;”
And those to give-the same kind Friend,
Who help'd to make, now help'd to mend;
She who so well had wrought before,
Now, zealous, form'd one fabric more,-
Without a shovel or a spade,
Or other instrument of trade,
Mortar or lime, or brick or straw,
Cement or trowel, axe or saw,
FANCY did all things fit command,
With the slight waving of her wand;
And, without digging, sowing, planting,
To house and ground sent all was wanting;
Dress'd Bard in Fortunatus' cap,
And lull'd Dame Reason with a nap;
And while the spell was stronger making,
Kept only Muse and Poet waking;
And what they did, in one half-hour,
Exceeds a dozen draymen's power,
Counting a day against a minute,
Yet smil'd as there was nothing in it;
Play'd with their work, and did such things,
Time lagg'd behind with weary wings.
FANCY, her wand light waving thrice,
Settled impovements in a trice;
A room was added to the end,
With a spare chamber for a Friend;
Both smiling on the mountain's brow,
And vale and meadow grounds below;
The furniture was simply neat,
Just fit for Poet's lov'd retreat:
A dingey wall, that fronts the door,
With evergreens she cover'd o'er ;
The crazy hovel, near the well,
At FANCY's touch obedient fell;
The swampy land she dried and drain'd;
The good old apple-trees remain'd:
She, in a moment, made a Mead,
For happy Poet's Cow and Steed.
A Horse like that the Poet rode,
A better sure ne'er Bard bestrode;
For, though he once did make a slip,-
Heav'n help us all!-who does not trip?
Then for the Garden, swift she brought
Green sward and gravel with a thought;
Topp'd the rude hedge, enwove a bower,
And bade her new creation flower;
In short, commanded all things meet,
Till Cot and Garden were complete;
And Brown and Repton needs must own,
TO FANCY they should yield the throne.
While thus she work'd, our Bard survey'd
What Friendship gave, and Fancy made;
He heav'd involuntary sighs,
And tears unbidden bath'd his eyes.
"And shall I then yet call my own,"
He cried, "when half my years are flown-
Though flown, alas! my heart, too slow,
Swift though they were for swifter woe!-
And shall I then no longer roam
The varied World, in search of Home?
From, foul INGRATITUDE, thy strife,
Hyæna false of social life!
And, Slander, from thy venom'd tongue,
And, Flattery, from thy syren song,
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