Or said 'Good-morning!' to a passer-by, But he too great a coward was to go, 'T was only to perplex the heart he 'd won, Thus did he wound her, though she loved him still, And patiently put up with every ill; SALLY AND HER FRIEND VISIT A FORTUNE-TELLER. THAT 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; She might, no doubt, with pointed finger show Well, those are good that never stoop to wrong, SALLY TORMENTED INTO A DECLINE; AN AFFECTING PICTURE. Thus to young hopes she would her fortunes tell, On Winter's nights for hours I've known her stand, 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, Her mother talked of patience all in vain, 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; HER LOVER REPENTS; INTERVIEW; TOO LATE; VAIN HOPES; The parents thought 't would save their sinking child, The gossips, when they met, would still agree I bore the pall up to her last long home; CONCLUSION OF THE MOTHER'S STORY.- SALLY'S TOMB-STone. I often stand to gaze upon the stone, Whene'er I journey to the church alone, Where gold-winged cherubs hold a flowery wreath Upon whose leaves was writ, at her request, 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 reached the Bible down from off the shelf I've talked till I have almost tired my tongue; I wish you better luck than Sally Grey. She ceased her tale, and snuffed the candle-wick, Lifting it up from burning in the stick, Then laid her knitting down, and shook her head, And stooped to stir the fire, and talk of bed. 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!1 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, 'We did so laugh; the moon shone bright; "T was Farmer Cheerum's Horkey 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; 'T 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," 'On went the boilers till the hake 3 Birds sung; Because as how, d' ye see, I only helped there for the day; And now the cloth was spread. 6 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, And Grace amongst the green boughs rode 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, And we found out they talked the louder, '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, "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." '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." 'And sure enough the noise they made! But let me mind my tale; We followed them, we wor'nt afraid, 'As they stood hallooing back to back, We, lightly as a feather, Went sliding round, and in a crack Had pinned their coats together. They shouted to the full round moon, '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, They said she could not run for fat; 'Sue round the neat-house 8 squalling ran, Where Simon scarcely dare; He stopt, 66 for he's a fearful man 'By gom there's suffen there!" 'And off set John, with all his might, To chase me down the yard, Till I was nearly gran'd 10 outright; 'Still they kept up the race and laugh, '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. 'High on the spirket11 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; Then in his button-hole upright A slip of paper twisted tight, 'The clock struck one-some talked of parting, Some said it was a sin, And hitched their chairs;- but those for starting 'Owd women, loitering for the nonce, 12 'And out ran every soul beside, A shanny-pated 13 crew; But laughing got the master; All innocent, that I'll be sworn, There wor'nt a bit of sorrow; '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, Bade all good morn as he came near 'em, 'Then off we strolled this way and that, As home we rambled singing. 'For, when we laughed, it laughed again, Poor Judie ! thus time knits or spins 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. WHAT is the soul the better to be tined [be With holy fire? what boots it to be coined Do they not taste Thee? hear Thee? nay, what sense What more do we? alas! what serves our reason, 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. Grant that the powerful still the weak control; Be man the wit and tyrant of the whole : 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.** |