Then glowed the fire upon the hearth;
In many an ancient hall
The tables shook-the platters smoked-
The poor were welcome all.
The Ancient Virtue is not dead,
And long may it endure;
May wealth in England never fail,
Nor pity for the poor.
Though cold inhospitable skies
O'erarch us as we stand,
They cannot dull the genial hearts
That glow within the land.
And evermore when winds blow cold
We'll imitate our sires—
We'll spread the board—we'll feed the poorWe'll light the cottage fires.
GIVE, oh give us English welcomes,
We'll forgive the English skies;
English homes and English manners,
And the light of English eyes.
Give us for our props in peril,
English valor, pith, and stress,
And for wives sweet English maidens
Radiant in their loveliness.
Foreign tastes perchance may differ,
On our virtues or our laws,
But who sees an English matron,
And withholds his deep applause ?
Who beholds an English maiden,
Bright and modest, fair and free,
And denies the willing tribute
Of a fond idolatry?
Lovely are the maids of Rhineland, Glowing are the maids of Spain, French, Italians, Greeks, Circassians, Woo our homage - not in vain
But for Beauty to enchant us,
And for Virtue to enthral,
Give our hearts the girls of England – Dearer,- better than them all.
THE SWING: A LOVER'S DIALOGUE.
'I LOVE my Love in the days of Spring,
With her I'll go a-garlanding,
A-garlanding in the merry May,
Laughing and singing all the day.
We roam the woods, we trace the streams,
Our waking thoughts are bright as dreams;
No bee on the blossom, no lark in the sky,
Is happier than my love and I.’
I love to swing in the garden-bowers,
Under the branches all alone;
I've heard your speeches, full of flowers,
Till I am weary of the hours
So, prithee, babbler, get you gone.
Can you not leave me to myself?
I want to swing and not to woo;
I've had no rest, since first betrothed,
I've been a listener to you.
'I'll love my Love in the Summer-time,
Our years shall ripen to their prime;
We'll sit in the shade a little more,
Beneath the elm-trees at our door;
We'll watch the joy our children run,
We'll give the world our benison;
No bird in its nest on the tree-tops high
Shall be more blithe than my Love and I.'
'Tis very well. You talk: no doubt:
Let go the rope-pick up my glove –
You're in the way· - stand further out
You'll make me scold, you awkward lout.
And so you call such fancies, 'Love?'
You cannot help it?'Love,' indeed!
I vow I'll never praise it more ;
I'd just as soon praise two and two
For condescending to be four!
'I'll love my Love in the Autumn eves,
We'll gather in our barley sheaves,
We'll reap our corn, we'll press our vine,
We'll hear on the hills our lowing kine;
We'll pluck our peaches from the wall,
We'll give our friends a festival:
There is no joy the world can buy
Ah, well! I think I'll be resigned;
But, prithee, let me swing in peace,-
I cannot hear the whispering wind,
Nor stockdove in the woods behind,
You make such prattle, will you cease?
Do stand aside and give me room,
If thus our stream of life must flow,
I'll bear as calmly as I can
The love you've threatened to bestow..
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