Who in that dim-wood glen hath strayed,
Yet longed for Roslin's magic glade?

Who, wandering there, hath sought to change
Even for that vale so stern and strange,
Where Cartland's Crags, fantastic rent,
Through her green copse like spires are sent?
Yet, Albin, yet the praise be thine,

Thy scenes and story to combine !
Thou bid'st him who by Roslin strays
List to the deeds of other days;

Mid Cartland's Crags thou show'st the cave,
The refuge of thy champion brave;
Giving each rock its storied tale,
Pouring a lay for every dale,
Knitting, as with a moral band,
Thy native legends with thy land,
To lend each scene the interest high
Which genius beams from Beauty's eye.

Walter Scott.

Beachy Head.

BEACHY HEAD.

HAUNTS of my youth!

Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet! Where 't was so pleasant by thy northern slopes, To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft

By scattered thorns, whose spiny branches bore
Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb,
There seeking shelter from the noonday sun;
And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf,
To look beneath upon the hollow way,
While heavily upward moved the laboring wain,
And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind,

To ease his panting team, stopped with a stone
The grating wheel.

Advancing higher still,
The prospect widens, and the village church
But little o'er the lowly roofs around
Rears its gray belfry, and its simple vane;
Those lowly roofs of thatch are half-concealed
By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring;
When on each bough the rosy-tinctured bloom
Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty.

For even those orchards round the Norman farms,
Which, as their owners mark the promised fruit,
Console them, for the vineyards of the South
Surpass not these.

Where woods of ash and beach, And partial copses fringe the green hill-foot, The upland shepherd rears his modest home; There wanders by a little nameless stream That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear, Or after rain with chalky mixture gray, But still refreshing in its shallow course The cottage garden, most for use designed, Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine Mantles the little casement; yet the brier

Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers;

And pansies rayed, and freaked and mottled pinks,
Grow among balm and rosemary and rue.

There honeysuckles flaunt and roses blow
Almost uncultured; some with dark green leaves
Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white;
Others, like velvet robes of regal state
Of richest crimson; while, in thorny moss
Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely wear
The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek.
With fond regret I recollect e'en now
In spring and summer, what delight I felt
Among these cottage gardens, and how much
Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush
By village housewife or her ruddy maid,
Were welcome to me, soon and simply pleased.
An early worshipper at Nature's shrine,

I loved her rudest scenes,
warrens and heaths,
And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows,
And hedge-rows bordering unfrequented lanes,
Bowered with wild roses and the clasping woodbine.

Charlotte Smith.

Beccles.

BECCLES.

ORTH rode Orlando by a river's side,

FORTH

Inland and winding, smooth, and full and wide, That rolled majestic on, in one soft flowing tide; The bottom gravel, flowery were the banks, Tall willows, waving in their broken ranks; The road, now near, now distant, winding led By lovely meadows which the waters fed; He passed the wayside inn, the village spire, Nor stopped to gaze, to question, or admire; On either side the rural mansions stood, With hedge-row trees, and hills high-crowned with wood, And many a devious stream that reached the nobler flood. George Crabbe.

A

Bedfont.

THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT.

LAS! that breathing Vanity should go
Where Pride is buried,

like its very ghost,

Uprisen from the naked bones below,

In novel flesh, clad in the silent boast

Of gaudy silk that flutters to and fro,

Shedding its chilling superstition most
On young and ignorant natures, as it wont
To haunt the peaceful churchyard of Bedfont!

Each Sabbath morning, at the hour of prayer,
Behold two maidens, up the quiet green
Shining, far distant, in the summer air

That flaunts their dewy robes and breathes between
Their downy plumes, - sailing as if they were
Two far-off ships, -until they brush between
The churchyard's humble walls, and watch and wait
On either side of the wide opened gate.

And there they stand with haughty necks before
God's holy house, that points towards the skies
Frowning reluctant duty from the poor,

And tempting homage from unthoughtful eyes:
And Youth looks lingering from the temple door,
Breathing its wishes in unfruitful sighs,
With pouting lips, - forgetful of the grace,
Of health, and smiles, on the heart-conscious face;-

Because that Wealth, which has no bliss beside,
May wear the happiness of rich attire;

And those two sisters, in their silly pride,

May change the soul's warm glances for the fire Of lifeless diamonds; and for health denied,

With art, that blushes at itself, inspire

Their languid cheeks, — and flourish in a glory

That has no life in life, nor after-story.