The Matron of the Village School
Maintained her ancient state and rule.
The dame was rigid and severe,

With much to love, but more to fear;
She was my nurse in infancy;
And as I sat upon her knee,
And listen'd to her stories, told
In dialect of Doric mould,

While wonders still on wonders grew,
I marvell'd if the tale were true;
And all she said of valorous knight,
And beauteous dame, and love, and fight,
Enchanter fierce, and goblin sly,
My childhood heard right greedily.
At last the wand of magic broke,
The tale was ended: and she spoke
Of learning's everlasting well,

And said "I ought to learn to spell;"
And then she talked of sound and sense;
Of verbs and adverbs, mood and tense;
And then she would with care disclose
The treasured Primer's letter'd rows,
Whereat my froward rage spoke out,
In cry and passion, frown and pout,
And with a sad and loathing look,
I shrunk from that enchanted book.
Oh! sweet were those untutor❜d years,
Their joys and pains, their hopes and fears;
There was a freshness in them all

Which we may taste, but not recall.
No-Man must never more enjoy
The thoughts, the passions of the boy,
The aspirations high and bold,
Unseen, unguided, uncontroll'd;
The first ambition, and the pride
That youthful bosoms feel and hide;
The longing after manhood's sun,
Which end in clouds

as mine have done.

In yonder neat abode, withdrawn From strangers by its humble lawn, Which the neat shrubbery enshrouds From scrutiny of passing crowds, The Pastor of the Village dwelt: To him with clasping hands I knelt,

When first he taught my lips to pray,
My steps to walk in virtue's way,
My heart to honour and to love
The God that ruleth from above.
He was a man of sorrows;-Care
Was seated on his hoary hair,
His cheek was colourless; his brow
Was furrow'd o'er, as mine is now;
His earliest youth had fled in tears,
And grief was on his closing years.
But still he met, with soul resign'd,
The day of mourning; and his mind,
Beneath its load of woe and pain,
Might deeply feel, but not complain;
And Virtue o'er his forehead's snows
Had thrown an air of meek repose,
More lovely than the hues that streak
The bloom of childhood's laughing cheek;
It seem'd to tell the holy rest

That will not leave the righteous breast,
The trust in One that died to save,
The hope that looks beyond the grave,
The calm of unpretending worth,
The bliss-that is not of the earth.
And he would smile; but in his smile
Sadness would seem to lurk the while;
Child as I was, I could not bear
To look upon that placid air;
I felt the tear-drop in mine eye,
And wish'd to weep, and knew not why.

He had one daughter.-Many years
Have fleeted o'er me, since my tears
Fell on that form of quiet grace,
That humble brow, and beauteous face.
She parted from this world of ill
When I was yet a child: but still,
Until mine heart shall cease to beat,
That countenance so mildly sweet,
'That kind blue eye and golden hair,
Eternally are graven there.
I see her still, as when she stood
In the ripe bloom of womanhood;
Yet deigning, where I led, to stray,
And mingle in my childhood's play;
Or sought my Father's dwelling-place,
And clasp'd me in her fond embrace;

A friend-when I had none beside;
A mother-when my Mother died.

Poor ELLEN! she is now forgot Upon the hearths of this dear spot; And they, to whom her bounty came, They, who would dwell upon her name With raptur'd voice, as if they found Hope, comfort, riches, in the sound, Have ceas'd to think how Ellen fledWhy should they sorrow for the dead? Perhaps, around the festive board, Some aged chroniclers record

Her hopes, her virtues, and her tomb;
And then a sudden, silent gloom
Creeps on the lips that smil'd before,
And jest is still, and mirth is o'er.
She was so beauteous in her dress
Of unaffected loveliness,
So bright, and so beneficent,
That you might deem some fairy sent
To hush the helpless orphan's fears,
And dry the widow's gushing tears.
She mov'd in beauty, like the star
That shed its lustre from afar,
To tell the wisest on the earth
The tidings of a Saviour's birth;
So pure, so cheering was her ray-
So quickly did it die away!

There came a dark infectious Pest,
To break the hamlet's tranquil rest;
It came it breath'd on Ellen's face;
And so she went to Death's embrace,
A blooming and a sinless bride,-
And how I knew not-but she died.

I was the inmate of her home, And knew not why she did not come To cheer my melancholy mood; Her father wept in solitude; The servants wore a look of woe, Their steps were soft, their whispers low; And when I ask'd them why they sigh'd, They shook their heads, and turn'd aside.

I entered that forbidden room!
All things were still!-a deathlike gloom
Stole on me, as I saw her lie

In her white vest of purity.

She seem'd to smile! her lips were wet,
The bloom was on her features yet:
I look'd!-at first I thought she slept-
But when her accents did not bless me,
And when her arms did not caress me,
And when I mark'd her solemn air,
And saw that soul was wanting there-
I sat me on the ground, and wept!

W. P.

HORE PALUDOSE;

OR,

DROPS OF DERWENTWATER.

No. I.

SONNET ON THE STATE OF SPAIN IN APRIL, 1820.

I SATE, and basked me in the noontide sun,
By Derwent's lovely water; bright he shone,
The sun shone bright, but ever and anon
Athwart his chariot's golden track did run
Light fleeting clouds, then fled, as if to shun
Th' insulted Monarch's ire: the first scarce gone,
Sunward their brother clouds came trooping on,
Like metaphysic fancies, one by one
Crossing the clear orb of my mind. In Spain
Thus civil strife to foreign war succeeds,
And each extinguished feud its fellow breeds;
So Fate hath order'd, that in endless chain
Effect from cause shall flow: but what will be
The end of this, no mortal can foresee.

Rydal Mount.

W. W.

THE observation of the Roman Satirist, which we have placed at the head of our Essay, may, with many other passages of the like nature, be looked upon not less in a moral than in a literary point of view. The Poet is reprobating the conduct of those who form their opinion of letters, not from the suggestions of their own knowledge, but from the sentiments which they hear expressed around them; who find fault with unpopular works, merely because they are unpopular; and chime in with the taste of the day, merely because it is the taste of the day. The beautiful though somewhat forced metaphor, with which the passage concludes, strongly expresses the contempt which the author feels for those, who, receiving from the mouths of others the opinion which they ought to ground upon their own judgment, do, as it were, look abroad for themselves. How much more contemptible, and, alas! how much more dangerous, is this system of compliance with the will of the world, when it requires, not merely a sacrifice of feeling or sound taste in criticism, but a dereliction of principle or a neglect of religion. Yet we are so blind to the truths which are perpetually before our eyes, that when we find a person ready to confirm with his obedient "Yes," the opinions of whoever may have been the last speaker on literary topics, we sneer at such a yielding spirit of servility; while, on the other hand, when we meet with the sycophant who is accustomed to square his ideas of morality according to the sentiments of the companion of the moment, such a character, so lost to all semblance of freedom and of selfrespect, is too frequently past over without censure, and without disgust.

Among the minor foibles of young men there are few for which we entertain a greater contempt than a needless affectation of singularity. However absurd the manners of the world may be, still, provided they are only manners, we would rather see a young man comply assiduously with them, than deviate assiduously from them. Were we to visit Muscovy we would endeavour to eat caviare; and were we to reside in Holland we would certainly study High-Dutch. But a broad line of distinction