I am not absolutely certain that the following Poem was written by EDMUND SPENSER, and found by an Angler, buried in a fishing box
"Under the foot of Mole, that mountain hoar,
"Mid the green alders, by the Mulla's shore."
But a learned Antiquarian of my acquaintance has given it as his opinion, that it resembles SPENSER's minor Poems as nearly as Vortigern and Rowena the Tragedies of WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. This Poem must be read in recitative, in the same manner as the gloga Secunda of the Shepherd's Calendar.
Under the arms of a goodly oak-tree, There was of Swine a large company. They were making a rude repast, Grunting as they crunch'd the mast.
Then they trotted away for the wind blew high- One acorn they left, ne more mote you spy,
Next came a Raven, who lik'd not such folly : He belong'd, I believe, to the witch MELANCHOLY! Blacker was he than blackest jet;
Flew low in the rain; his feathers were wet. He pick'd up the acorn and buried it strait, By the side of a river both deep and great. Where then did the Raven go?
He went high and low,
Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go! Many Autumns, many Springs, Travell'd he with wandering wings; Many Summers, many Winters-
I can't tell half his adventures.
At length he return'd, and with him a she; And the acorn was grown a large oak-tree. They built them a nest in the topmost bough, And young ones they had, and were jolly enow. But soon came a woodman in leathern guise, His brow like a pent-house hung over his eyes. He'd an axe in his hand, and he nothing spoke, But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke,
At last he brought down the poor Raven's own oak. His young ones were kill'd, for they could not depart, And his wife she did die of a broken heart!
The branches from off it the Woodman did sever And they floated it down on the course of the river : They saw'd it to planks, and its rind they did strip,
And with this tree and others they built up a ship. The ship it was launch'd; but in sight of the land, A tempest arose which no ship could withstand.
It bulg'd on a rock, and the waves rush'd in fast- The auld Raven flew round and round, and caw'd to the blast. He heard the sea-shriek of their perishing souls! They be sunk! o'er the top-mast the mad water rolls. The Raven was glad that such fate they did meet― They had taken his all, and REVENGE WAS SWEET.
On leaving BRISTOL WELLS.
By the Rev. C. H. SHERIVE.
Ye rocks and woods, o'er Avon's winding stream, Sublimely tow'ring (in whose shadowy caves Dwells Inspiration, she, that rarely lists To mortal call, within her wild abode From vulgar ken retiring;) pensive, now, Το you I turn; with undissembled sighs, Measuring the dreary space, O! choice retreats Of all that warms my fancy, or my heart, The dreary space, that severs me from you!
Life-breathing Gales, and Waters, that revive Health's roses, when they droop; your genial aid Now most I need, far distant; honouring thee Not less, O! sacred Fount, than ancient bards Their Hippocrene; for spirits, here, sublime, True sons of Genius, darlings of the Muse Have lov'd to wander. Such the luckless youth,
That hymn'd the shade of Ælla, and that sung The victor Norman: He, whose master-hand Call'd from his harp immortal tones; 'till Fate, Summon'd by dire Despair, his tuneful breath Stifled remorseless: o'er his early Grave Nature will weep, nor Piety herself
Can blame the tear, tho' she abhor the deed : And such was Het, that, here, in hapless hour, Pour'd o'er the dear lost partner of his life Soft strains of tenderest sorrow. Alas! too oft In vain essaying these salubrious streams, The pining child of grief, the victims pale Of luckless love, here droop and fade and fall; Yea even the Sons of Song,-or Russel's biert Sweet Poesy's pensive flowers, not yet, had strew'd.
Haunts of the Muse much lov'd, still, still ye boast Rich in æthereal flame a sacred few,
That scale the Aonian summit, and explore Empyreal fields of fancy: or, presume,
Mr. Russel of New College, Oxford, died at the Hot-Welle, in 1788.
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