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,

On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play.

At Edmonton his loving wife

From the balcony spied

Her tender husband, wond'ring much

To see how he did ride.

"Stop, stop, John Gilpin! Here's the house"

They all at once did cry;

"The dinner waits, and we are tir'd:"

Said Gilpin " So am I!"

But yet his horse was not a whit Inclin❜d to tarry there;

For why?-his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware.

So like an arrow, swift he flew,
Shot by an archer strong;

So did he fly-which brings me to
The middle of my song.

Away went Gilpin, out of breath,
And sore against his will,
Till at his friend the calend❜rer's
His horse at last stood still.

The calend'rer, amaz'd 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,

And lov'd a timely joke;

And thus unto the calend❜rer

In merry guise he spoke:

"I came, because your horse would come;

And, if I well forebode,

My hat and wig will soon be here,

They are upon the road."

The calend❜rer, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Return'd him not a single word, But to the house went in.

When straight he came, with hat and wig;
A wig that flow'd behind,

A hat not much the worse for wear,
Each comely in it's kind.

He held them up, and in his turn
Thus show'd his ready wit,
"My head is twice as big as your's,
They therefore needs must fit.

"But let me scrape the dirt away,
That hangs upon your face;
And stop and eat, for well you may
Be in a hungry case."

Said John, "It is my wedding-day,
And all the world would stare,
If wife should dine at Edmonton,
And I should dine at Ware."

So turning to his horse, he said, "I am in haste to dine;

'T was for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine."

Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast!
For which he paid full dear;

For, while he spake, a braying ass
Did sing most loud and clear;

Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar,

And gallop'd off with all his might, As he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpin's hat and wig:

He lost them sooner than at first,
For why?-they were too big.

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down

Into the country far away,

She pull'd out half-a-crown;

And thus unto the youth she said,

That drove them to the Bell,

"This shall be your's, when you bring back

My husband, safe and well."

The youth did ride, and soon did meet

John coming back amain;

Whom in a trice he tried to stop,
By catching at his rein;

But not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighten❜d more,
And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away

Went postboy at his heels,

The postboy's horse right glad to miss The lumb'ring of the wheels.

Six gentlemen, upon the road,

Thus seeing Gilpin fly,

With postboy scamp'ring in the rear, They rais'd the hue and cry!

"Stop thief! stop thief!-a highwayman!" Not one of them was mute; And all and each that pass'd that way

Did join in the pursuit,

And now the turnpike-gates again
Flew open in short space;
The toll-men thinking, as before,
That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too,
For he got first to town;

Nor stopp'd till, where he had got up,
He did again get down.

Now let us sing, Long live the King!

And Gilpin, long live he!

And, when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to see!

YARDLEY OAK.

AN

EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.

DEAR JOSEPH-five-and-twenty years ago
Alas, how time escapes!-'t is even so-
With frequent intercourse, and always sweet,
And always friendly, we were wont to cheat
A tedious hour-and now we never meet!
As some grave gentleman in Terence says,
("T was therefore much the same in ancient days,)
Good lack! we know not what to-morrow brings-
Strange fluctuation of all human things!
True; changes will befal, and friends may part,
But distance only cannot change the heart:
And, were I call'd to prove th' assertion true,
One proof should serve—a reference to you.

Whence comes it, then, that, in the wane of life,
Though nothing have occurr'd to kindle strife,
We find the friends we fancied we had won,
Though num'rous once, reduc'd to few or none?
Can gold grow worthless that has stood the touch?
No; gold they seem'd, but they were never such.
Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe,
Swinging the parlour door upon it's hinge,
Dreading a negative, and overaw'd

Lest he should trespass, begg'd to go abroad.
"Go, fellow!-whither ?”—turning short about-
"Nay. Stay at home-you 're always going out.”
"T is but a step, sir, just at the street's end."
"For what?”—“ An' please you, sir, to see a friend.”
"A friend!" Horatio cried, and seem'd to start-
"Yea marry shalt thou, and with all my heart.—
And fetch my cloak; for, though the night be raw,
I'll see him too-the first I ever saw."

I knew the man, and knew his nature mild,
And was his plaything often when a child;
But somewhat at that moment pinch'd him close,
Else he was seldom bitter or morose.
Perhaps, his confidence just then betray'd,

His grief might prompt him with the speech he made;
Perhaps 't was mere good-humour gave it birth,
The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth.
Howe'er it was, his language, in my mind,
Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind.
But, not to moralize too much, and strain
To prove an evil of which all complain,
(I hate long arguments verbosely spun,)
One story more, dear Hill, and I have done.
Once on a time an emp'ror, a wise man,
No matter where, in China or Japan,
Decreed, that whosoever should offend
Against the well-known duties of a friend,
Convicted once, should ever after wear
But half a coat, and show his bosom bare.
The punishment importing this, no doubt,
That all was naught within, and all found out.
O happy Britain! we have not to fear
Such hard and arbitrary measure here;
Else, could a law, like that which I relate,
Once have the sanction of our triple state,
Some few, that I have known in days of old,
Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold;
While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow,
Might traverse England safely to and fro,
An honest man, close-button'd to the chin,
Broad cloth without, and a warm heart within.

SURVIVOR Sole, and hardly such, of all
That once liv'd here, thy brethren, at my birth
(Since which I number threescore winters past)
A shatter'd vet'ran, hollow-trunk'd, perhaps,
As now,
and with excoriate forks deform,
Relics of ages! Could a mind, imbued
With truth from Heav'n, created thing adore,
I might with rev'rence kneel, and worship thee.

It seems idolatry with some excuse,
When our forefather Druids in their oaks
Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet
Unpurified by an authentic act

Of amnesty-the meed of blood divine,
Lov'd not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom
Of thickest shades, like Adam, after taste
Of fruit proscrib'd, as to a refuge, fled.

Thou wast a banble once, a cup and ball,
Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay,
Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd
The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down
Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs
And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp.
But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains
Beneath thy parent-tree mellow'd the soil
Design'd thy cradle; and a skipping deer,
With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepar'd
The soft receptacle, in which, secure,

Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through.

So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can,
Ye reas'ners broad awake, whose busy search
Of argument, employ'd too oft amiss,
Sifts half the pleasures of short life away!

Thou fell'st mature, and, in the loamy clod,
Swelling, with vegetative force instinct,
Didst burst thine egg, as their's the fabled Twins,
Now stars; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact;
A leaf succeeded, and another leaf;

And, all the elements thy puny growth

Fost'ring, propitious, thou becam❜st a twig.

Who liv'd, when thou wast such? Oh, couldst thou speak,

As in Dodona once thy kindred trees,
Oracular, I would not curious ask

The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth
Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past.

By thee I might correct, erroneous oft,
The clock of history, facts and events
Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts
Recov'ring, and mis-stated setting right-
Desp❜rate attempt, till trees shall speak again!

Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods
And Time hath made thee what thou art-a cave
For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs
O'erhung the champaign; and the num'rous flocks,
That graz'd it, stood beneath that ample cope
Uncrowded, yet safe-shelter'd from the storm.
No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outliv'd
Thy popularity, and art become

(Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth.

While thus through all the stages thou hast push'd Of treeship-first a seedling, hid in grass;

Then twig; then sapling; and, as cent❜ry roll'd Slow after century, a giant bulk,

Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root Upheav'd above the soil, and sides emboss'd With prom❜nent wens globose-till at the last The rottenness, which Time is charged to inflict On other mighty ones, found also thee.

What exhibitions various hath the world
Witness'd of mutability, in all

That we account most durable below!
Change is the diet on which all subsist,
Created changeable; and change at last.
Destroys them. Skies uncertain now the heat
Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam
Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds-
Calm and alternate storm, moisture, and drought,
Invigorate by turns the springs of life

In all that live-plant, animal, and man,

And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads,
Fine passing thought, e'en in her coarsest works,
Delight in agitation, yet sustain

The force that agitates not unimpair'd,
But, worn by frequent impulse, to the cause
Of their best tone their dissolution owe.

Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still
The great and little of thy lot, thy growth
From almost nullity into a state
Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence,
Slow, into such magnificent decay.
Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly

Could shake thee to the root-and time has been,
When tempests could not. At thy firmest age,
Thou hadst, within thy bole, solid contents,

That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the deck
Of some flagg'd admiral; and tortuous arms,
The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present
To the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold,
Warp'd into tough knee-timber, many a load!
But the axe spar'd thee. In those thriftier days
Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to supply
The bottomless demands of contest, wag'd
For senatorial honours. Thus to Time
The task was left to whittle thee away
With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge,
Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more,
Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserv'd,
Achiev'd a labour, which had far and wide,
By man perform'd, made all the forest ring.

With bow and shaft, have burnt them. Some have left

A splinter'd stump, bleach'd to a snowy white;
And some, memorial none, where once they grew.
Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth
Proof not contemptible of what she can,
Even where death predominates. The spring
Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force,
Than yonder upstarts of the neighb’ring wood,
So much thy juniors, who their birth receiv'd
Half a millenium since the date of thine.

But since, although well qualified by age To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice May be expected from thee, seated here On thy distorted root, with hearers.none, Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform Myself the oracle, and will discourse

In my own ear such matter as I may.

One man alone, the father of us all, Drew not his life from woman; never gaz'd, With mute unconsciousness of what he saw, On all around him; learn'd not by degrees, Nor ow'd articulation to his ear; But, moulded by his Maker into man At once, up stood intelligent, survey'd All creatures, with precision understood Their purport, uses, properties, assign'd To each his name significant, and, fill'd With love and wisdom, render'd back to Heav'n, In praise harmonious, the first air he drew. He was excus'd the penalties of dull Minority. No tutor charg'd his hand With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind With problems. History, not wanted yet, Lean'd on her elbow, watching Time, whose course, Eventful, should supply her with a theme.

THE CASTAWAY.

OBSCUREST night involv'd the sky,
Th' Atlantic billows roar'd,
When such a destin'd wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.

No braver chief could Albion boast,
Than he, with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,
With warmer wishes sent.
He lov'd them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay;

Nor soon he felt his strength decline, Or courage die away;

But wag'd with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life.

He shouted; nor his friends had fail'd
To check the vessel's course,

But so the furious blast prevail'd,
That, pitiless, perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.

REPORT

OF AN ADJUDGED CASE, NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS.

BETWEEN Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose;
The spectacles set them, unhappily, wrong;
The point in dispute was, as all the world knows,
To which the said spectacles ought to belong.

So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause
With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning,
While Chief Baron Ear sat to balance the laws,
So fam'd for his talent in nicely discerning.

In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear,

And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear, Which amounts to possession, time out of mind.

Then, holding the spectacles up to the court,-
Your lordship observes they are made with a
straddle,

As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short,
Design'd to sit clòse to it, just like a saddle.

Again, would your lordship a moment suppose ('Tis a case that has happen'd, and may be again) That the visage or countenance had not a nose, Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then?

On the whole, it appears, and my argument shows, With a reas'ning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.

Then shifting his side, (as a lawyer knows how,)
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes;
But what were his arguments few people know,
For the court did not think they were equally wise.

So his lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone,
Decisive and clear, without one if or but,-
That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on,
By daylight or candlelight-Eyes should be shut!

Those ills that wait on all below

Shall ne'er be felt by me,

Or gently felt, and only so,
As being shar'd with thee.

When lightnings flash among the trees,
Or kites are hov'ring near,

I fear lest thee alone they seize,
And know no other fear.

'Tis then I feel myself a wife, And press thy wedded side, Resolv'd, a union form'd for life Death never shall divide.

But oh! if, fickle and unchaste,

(Forgive a transient thought,) Thou could become unkind at last, And scorn thy present lot,

No need of lightnings from on high,
Or kites with cruel beak:
Denied th' endearments of thine eye,
This widow'd heart would break.

Thus sang the sweet sequester'd bird,
Soft as the passing wind;
And I recorded what I heard-
A lesson for mankind.

SONNET TO CHARLES DIODATI.

CHARLES-and I say it wond'ring-thou must know,
That I, who once assum'd a scornful air,
And scoff'd at love, am fallen in his snare,—
(Full many an upright man has fall'n so.)
Yet, think me not thus dazzled by the flow
Of golden locks, or damask cheek: more rare
The heart-felt beauties of my foreign fair:
A mien majestic, with dark brows, that show
The tranquil lustre of a lofty mind;
Words exquisite-of idioms more than one,

And song, whose fascinating pow'r might bind,
And, from her sphere, draw down the lab'ring moon;
With such fire-darting eyes, that, should I fill
My ears with wax, she would enchant me still.

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

DEAR architect of fine CHATEAUX in air-
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,
Than any built of stone, or yet of wood,
For back of royal elephant to bear!-
Oh! for permission from the skies to share-
Much to my own, though little to thy good,
With thee (not subject to the jealous mood)
A partnership of literary ware!
But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd, henceforth,
To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays,-
Bards, I acknowledge, of unequall'd worth!
But what is commentator's happiest praise?
That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes,
Which they, who need them, use, and then despise.