I would not be idle, like some wicked boys,
So I got me a basket with trinkets and toys ;
Nobody was e'er more industrious than I,
Nobody more willing to sell if you'll buy.
I've Bonaparte's life, and adventures, and birth,
And histories of all the great men of the earth:
Enigmas, and riddles, and stories complete :
Come buy them, dear ladies, a penny a sheet.
Here's cottons, and bobbins, and laces so white,
And thimbles, and scissors, well polished and bright:
Fine pictures of Frenchmen, and Tartar, and Swede;
And Darton's gay books for good children to read.
I've all the debates, in the parliament made,
On sinecures, pensions, and taxes new laid:
Accounts of the battles by land and by sea,
That were fought in one thousand eight hundred and three.
In summer, gay flowers and nosegays I sell,
Sweet-cowslips, and roses, and jasmines to smell:
Watercresses for breakfast, fresh gathered and green,
From bad weeds and hemlock picked careful and clean.
But alas! 't is in vain that I mournfully cry,
And hold out my basket to all who pass by;
I fancy they 're thinking of other affairs;
For they seem not to notice or me or my wares.
I would get me a place that was decent and clean,
Though in a capacity ever so mean;
But nobody credits a word that I say,
For they call me a vagrant, and turn me away.
In the evening I wander, all hungry and cold,
And the bright Christmas fires thro' the windows behold: Ah, while the gay circles such comforts enjoy,
They think not of me, a poor perishing boy!
Oh had I a coat, if 't were ever so old,
This poor trembling body to screen from the cold;
Or a hat from the weather to shelter my head;
Or an old pair of shoes, or a morsel of bread!
"Tis almost a fortnight since I've tasted meat;
Pray give a poor creature a mouthful to eat ;
And while you in plenty all comforts enjoy,
Oh think upon me, a poor perishing boy.
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
"HE FASHIONETH THEIR HEARTS ALIKE."
A WISH, fair friend, you late expressed,
-A modest wish, to know
The thoughts that in another's breast
Were passing to and fro.
"T is little worth, I own, to say;
But Grace commands, and I obey.
Yet must I such a task fulfil,
And e'en perform it now?
Yes, fair confessor-yes I will,
But you shall tell me how:
To see my heart, consult your own,
And all you wish to know, is known.
A free communion thus we hold:
Compare our "common lot;"
And yet no secret need be told;
Convenient-is it not?
So much we may :-no more we dare,
Friends, and yet strangers, as we are.
When wood and vale, and light and shade,
Lay varied late to view,
When sunbeams on the waters played,
And heaven was bright and blue,
We felt ;-but what we felt, and why,
Could you explain?-no more could I.
Did fancy dare indulge that day
In sport she loves so well?
Did fairies dance, did zephyrs play
In every sylvan dell—
Then vanish-all reduced to nought, Touched by the wand of sober thought?
Did pensive musings of the past,
When other skies were bright,
Their momentary shadows cast
O'er hills, and hearts, so light?—
It might be so perhaps with some,
While others glanced at joys to come.
Did lovely nature thus employ
Her magic o'er the mind-
Awaking gladness, sadness, joy,
By turns, or all combined;
Till eye to eye could best impart
The thrill that went from heart to heart?
Thus while the buoyant spirits flow,
How soft the moments glide!
But tell me, tell me, if you know,
Their far-receding tide!
From hence at least you may perceive
What flat and dreary sands they leave.
Then life looks cheerless, does it not?
Not yet, perhaps, to you,
Who see it from a different spot,
And gain a fairer view;
Then ask not if 't is smooth or rough;
For time will tell you soon enough.
But O, forgive the dark presage
That shades too oft my sight;
Turn quickly to a fairer page,
And read in lines of light—
(Most bright when life has lost its zest) That word of cheer-"There is a rest." Hull, June 29, 1821.
WHY SO misname the writer's task?
The honor all is hers;
"A favor," if a Poet ask,
A favor he confers.
Yet to fulfil the kind request
Is skill she dare not own;-
Who to a poet can suggest
A thought to him unknown?
What can the roving eye explore
That earth or heaven displays,
But his has glanced upon before,
With more enraptured gaze?
Or should a heart its tale reveal
Of hidden joy or wo;—
What is there that a heart can feel,
But his must better know?
Forbear a further plea to bring,
Since taste and truth agree,
That none can touch the sacred string
With truth and taste, but he.
SWEET Jessamine, long may thy elegant flower Breathe fragrance and solace for me;
And long thy green sprays overshadow the bower Devoted to friendship and thee.
The eye that was dazzled where lilies and roses
Their brilliant assemblage displayed,
With grateful delight on thy verdure reposes,
-A tranquil and delicate shade.
But ah, what dejection that foliage expresses,
Which pensively droops on her breast!
The dew of the evening has laden her tresses,
And stands like a tear on her crest.
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