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He soon replied, I do admire
I am a linen-draper bold,
As all the world doth know,
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, That's well said;
Which is both bright and clear.
John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;
The morning came, the chaise was brought,
To drive up to the door, lest all
Should say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was stayed,
Six precious souls, and all agog
To dash through thick and thin.
Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,
Were never folk so glad,
John Gilpin at his horse's side
Seized fast the flowing mane,
So down he came; for loss of time,
'Twas long before the customers
Good lack! quoth he-yet bring it me,
In which I bear my trusty sword
Now mistress Gilpin (careful soul!)
Then over all, that he might be
Equipped from top to toe,
His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, He manfully did throw.
Now see him mounted once again
But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, Which galled him in his seat.
So, fair and softly, John he cried, But John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein.
So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright,
He grasped the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might.
His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more.
Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;
The wind did blow, the cloak did fly
Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung;
A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung.
The dogs did bark, the children screamed,
And every soul cried out, Well done!
Away went Gilpin-who but he?
His fame soon spread around, He carries weight! he rides a race! "Tis for a thousand pound!
And still, as fast as he drew near, 'Twas wonderful to view
How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw.
And now, as he went bowing down
Down ran the wine into the road,
But still he seemed to carry weight,
Thus all through merry Islington
These gambols he did play, Until he came unto the Wash
Of Edmonton so gay:
And there he threw the wash about
At Edmonton his loving wife
Stop, stop, John Gilpin!-Here's the house-
The dinner waits, and we are tired:
But yet his horse was not a whit
So like an arrow swift he flew,
Away went Gilpin out of breath,
The calender, amazed to see
His neighbour in such trim,
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,
And thus accosted him.
What news? what news? your tidings tell; Tell me you must and shall—
Say why bare-headed you are come, Or why you come at all?
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,
I came because your horse would come; And, if I well forbode,
My hat and wig will soon be here, They are upon the road.
The calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Returned him not a single word, But to the house went in;
Whence straight he came with hat and wig; A wig that flowed behind,
A hat not much the worse for wear,
Each comely in its kind.
He held them up, and in his turn
But let me scrape the dirt away,
Said John, it is my wedding-day,
So turning to his horse, he said,
'Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine.
Ah luckless speech, and bootless boast?
And galloped off with all his might,
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpin's hat and wig.
She pulled out half a crown;
And thus unto the youth she said,
This shall be yours when you bring back
The youth did ride, and soon did meet
But not performing what he meant,
Away went Gilpin, and away
Six gentlemen upon the road
With post-boy scampering in the rear,
Stop thief! stop thief!-a highwayman!
And all and each that passed that way
And now the turnpike gates again
And so he did, and won it too,
Now let us sing, long live the king,
ON RURAL SIGHTS AND SOUNDS.
The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly he, Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour To sleep within the carriage more secure, His legs depending at the open door. Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk, The tedious rector drawling over his head; And sweet the clerk below. But neither sleep Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead, Nor his, who quits the box at midnight hour To slumber in the carriage more secure, Nor sleep enjoyed by curate in his desk, Nor yet the dozings of the clerk, are sweet, Compared with the repose the sofa yields.
Oh may I live exempted (while I live Guiltless of pampered appetite obscene) From pangs arthritic, that infest the toe Of libertine excess. The sofa suits
The gouty limb, 'tis true; but gouty limb,
Of thorny boughs; have loved the rural walk
Their length and colour from the locks they spare;
Or blushing crabs, or berries, that imboss
But genuine, and art partner of them all.
Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower, Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells Just undulates upon the listening ear,
Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote.
Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds,
Betrays the secret of their silent course.
An instant's pause, and lives but while she moves. Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,
Its own revolvency upholds the world. But animated nature sweeter still,
Winds from all quarters agitate the air, To soothe and satisfy the human ear.
And fit the limpid element for use,
Ey restless undulation: even the oak
He seems indeed indignant, and to feel
The impression of the blast with proud disdain, That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, He held the thunder: but the monarch owes Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, His firm stability to what he scorns, And only there, please highly for their sake. More fixt below, the more disturbed above.
The law, by which all creatures else are bound,
Binds man the lord of all. Himself derives ON THE TOWN AND COUNTRY.
No mean advantage from a kindred cause, Hence the declivity is sharp and short,
From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease. And such the re-ascent; between them weeps The sedentary stretch their lazy length A little naiad her impoverished urn
When custom bids, but no refreshment find, All summer long, which winter fills again.
For none they need: the languid eye, the cheek The folded gates would bar my progress now,
Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk, But that the lord of this enclosed demesne,
And withered muscle, and the vapid soul, Communicative of the good he owns,
Reproach their owner with that love of rest,
To which he forfeits even the rest he loves.
And theirs alone seems worthy of the name.
Good health, and, its associate in the most, Ye fallen avenues! once more I mourn
Good temper; spirits prompt to undertake, Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice
And not soon spent, though in an arduous task; That yet a remnant of your race survives.
The powers of fancy and strong thought are theirs; How airy and how light the graceful arch,
Even age itself seems privileged in them, Yet awful as the consecrated roof
With clear exemption from its own defects. Re-echoing pious anthems! while beneath
A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front
a The chequered earth seems restless as a flood The veteran shows, and, gracing a gray beard Brushed by the wind. So sportive is the light With youthful smiles, descends toward the grave Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance, Sprightly, and old almost without decay. Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick,
Like a coy maiden, ease, when courted most, And darkening and enlightening, as the leaves Farthest retires—an idol, at whose shrine Play wanton, every moment, every spot. [cheered, Who oftenest sacrifice are favoured least.
And now, with nerves new-braced and spirits The love of Nature, and the scenes she draws, We tread the wilderness, whose well-rolled walks, Is nature's dictate. Strange! there should be found, With curvature of slow and easy sweep
Who, self-imprisoned in their proud saloons, Deception innocent-give ample space
Renounce the odours of the open field To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next;
For the unscented fictions of the loom ; Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms Who, satisfied with only pencilled scenes, We may discern the thresher at his task.
Prefer to the performance of a God
Lovely indeed the mimic works of art;
None more admires the painter's magic skill, Of atoms, sparkling in the noon-day beam.
Who shows me that which I shall never see,
But imitative strokes can do no more
Than please the eye-sweet Nature's every sense. Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan.
The air salubrious of her lofty hills, By ceaseless action all that is subsists.
The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales, Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel
And music of her woods-no works of man That nature rides upon maintains her health,
May rival these, these all bespeak a power Her beauty; her fertility. She dreads
Peculiar, and exclusively her own.