THE VICAR.

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath;

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveller up the path,

Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle; And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, Upon the parlour steps collected,

Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say, "Our master knows you; you 're expected."

Up rose the Reverend Doctor Brown,

Up rose the Doctor's "winsome marrow;" The lady laid her knitting down,

Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow : Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,

Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner, He found a stable for his steed,

And welcome for himself, and dinner.

If, when he reached his journey's end,
And warmed himself in court or college,
He had not gained an honest friend,

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge ;— If he departed as he came,

With no new light on love or liquor,Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar.

His talk was like a stream which runs
With rapid change from rocks to roses;
It slipped from politics to puns;

It passed from Mahomet to Moses;
Beginning with the laws which keep

The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep For dressing cels, or shoeing horses.

He was a shrewd and sound divine,
Of loud Dissent the mortal terror;
And when, by dint of page and line,
He 'stablished Truth, or started Error,
The Baptist found him far too deep;

The Deist sighed with saving sorrow;
And the lean Levite went to sleep,

And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow.

His sermon never said nor show'd

That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious,

Without refreshment on the road

From Jerome, or from Athanasius;

And sure a righteous zeal inspired

The hand and heart that penn'd and plann'd them,

For all who understood admired,

And some who did not understand them.

And he was kind, and loved to sit

In the low hut, or garnished cottage, And praise the farmer's homely wit,

And share the widow's homelier pottage;

At his approach complaint grew mild,

And when his hand unbarred the shutter,

The clammy lips of Fever smiled.

The welcome, which they could not utter.

He always had a tale for me

Of Julius Cæsar, or of Venus:
From him I learned the Rule of Three,
Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Quæ genus;
I used to singe his powder'd wig,

To steal the staff he put such trust in;
And make the puppy dance a jig,

When he began to quote Augustin.

A CHARADE.

Alack the change! in vain I look

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled,The level lawn, the trickling brook,

The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled: The church is larger than before;

You reach it by a carriage entry; It holds three hundred people more; And pews are fitted up for gentry.

Sit in the Vicar's seat: you'll hear
The doctrine of a gentle Johnian,
Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear,

Whose style is very Ciceronian.

Where is the old man laid?

Look down,

And construe on the slab before you,

"Hic jacet GULIELMUS BROWN,

Vir nulla non donandus lauro."

Are calling thee to die!

Fight as thy fathers fought,

Fall as thy fathers fell!

Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought;

So-forward! and farewell'

Toll ye, my Second! toll!

Fling high the flambeaux' light; And sing the hymn for a parted soul,

Beneath the silent night!

The wreath upon his head,

The cross upon his breast,

Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed:So-take him to his rest!

Call ye, my Whole, ay, call!
The lord of lute and lay;

And let him greet the sable pall
With a noble song to-day;

Go, call him by his name;

No fitter hand may crave

To light the flame of a soldier's fame,
On the turf of a soldier's grave.

HOOD.

THE ELM TREE.-A DREAM IN THE WOODS.

"And this our life, exempt from public haunt,

Finds tongues in trees!"-As you Like it.

PART I.

TWAS in a shady Avenue,

Where lofty Elms abound

And from a Tree

There came to me

A sad and solemn sound,

That sometimes murmur'd overhead,
And sometimes underground.

Amongst the leaves it seemed to sigh,
Amid the boughs to moan;

It mutter'd in the stem, and then
The roots took up the tone;
As if beneath the dewy grass
The dead began to groan.

No breeze there was to stir the leaves;
No bolts that tempests launch,
To rend the trunk or rugged bark;
No gale to bend the branch;

No quake of earth to heave the roots.
That stood so stiff and staunch.