Then the grim boar's-head frowned on high
Crested with bays and rosemary.

Well can the green-garbed ranger tell,
How, when, and where, the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassel round in good brown bowls,
Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by
Plumb-porridge stood, and Christmas pye;
Nor failed old Scotland to produce,
At such high-tide her savory goose.
Then came the merry masquers in,
And carols roared with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,

It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming sce
Traces of ancient_inystery;

White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made;
But, O! what masquers richly dight
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale;
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through half the year.

PHOEBE DAWSON.

[From Mr. CRABBE'S PARISH REGISTER.

WO summers since, I saw at Lammas fair, The sweetest flower that ever blossom'd there; When Phabe Dawson gaily cross'd the green, In haste to see, and happy to be seen; Her air, her manners, all who saw, admir'd; Courteous though coy, and gentle though retir'd; The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd, And ease of heart her every look convey'd; A native skill her simple robes express'd, As with untutor'd elegance she dress'd; The lads around admir'd so fair a sight, And Phabe felt, and felt she gave, delight. Admirers soon of every age she gain'd, Her beauty won them, and her worth retain'd;

Envy itself could no contempt display,

They wish'd her well whom yet they wish'd away;
Correct in thought, she judg'd a servant's place
Presery'd a rustic beauty from disgrace;

But yet on Sunday-eve in freedom's hour,
With secret joy she felt that beauty's power;
When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal,
That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel.—

At length, the youth ordain'd to move her breast,
Before the swains with bolder spirit press'd;
With looks less timid made his passion known,
And pleas'd by manners, most unlike her own;
Loud though in love, and confident though young;
Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue;

By trade a taylor, though, in scorn of trade,
He serv'd the 'squire, and brush'd the coat he made;
Yet now would Phabe her consent afford,
Her slave alone, again he'd mount the board;
With her should years of growing love be spent,
And growing wealth:-She sigh'd and look'd consent.
Now, through the lane, up hili, and cross the green,
(Seen by but few and blushing to be seen-
Dejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid),
Led by the lover, walk'd the silent maid:
Slow through the meadows rov'd they many a mile,
Toy'd by each bank, and trifled at each stile;
Where, as he painted every blissful view,
And highly colour'd what he strongly drew,
The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears,
Dinin'd the false prospect with prophetic tears:
Thus pass'd th' allotted hours, till lingering late,
The lover loiter'd at the master's gate;

There he pronounced adieu! and yet would stay,
Till children-sooth'd-intreated-forced away:
He would of coldness, though indulged, complain,
And oft retire, and oft return again;

When if his teasing vex'd her gentle mind,
The grief assum'd compell'd her to be kind!
For he would proof of plighted kindness crave,
That she resented first and then forgave,
And, to his grief and penance yielded more,
Than his presumption had required before:

Ah! fly temptation, youth! refrain,

Each yielding maid and each presuming swain!

Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black,
And torn green gown loose hanging at her back,
One who an infant in her arms sustains,
And seems in patience striving with her pains;

Pinch'd

Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for bread,
Whose cares are growing, and whose hopes are fled;
Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low,
And tears unnoticed from their channels flow;
Serene her manner, till some sudden pain,
Frets the meek soul and then she's calm again;
Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes,
And every step with cautious terror makes;
For not alone that infant in her arms,
But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms;
With water burthen'd, then she picks her way,
Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay;
Till, in mid-green, she trusts a place unsound,
And deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground;
Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she takes,
While hope the mind as strength the frame forsakes:
For when so full the cup of sorrow grows,
Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows.-
And now her path, but not her peace, she gains,
Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains;
Her home she reaches: open leaves the door,
And placing first her infant on the floor,
She bares her bosom to the wind and sits,
And sobbing struggles with the rising fits;
In vain, they come, she feels th' inflating grief,
That shuts the swelling bosom from relief;
That speaks in feeble cries a soul distrest,
Or the sad laugh that cannot be represt;
The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel and flies
With all the aid her poverty supplies;
Unfee'd, the calls of Nature she obeys,
Not led by profit, nor allur'd by praise;
And waiting long, till these contentions cease,
She speaks of comfort and departs in peace.

Friend of distress! the mourner feels thy aid,
She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid.

But who this child of weakness, want, and care?
Tis Phabe Dawson, pride of Lammas-fair;
Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes,
Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies:
Compassion first assail'd her gentle heart,
For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart :
"And then his prayers! they would a savage move,
"And win the coldest of the sex to love:'
But ah! too soon his looks success declar'd,
Too late her loss the marriage-rite repair'd;
The faithless flatterer then his vows forgot,
A captious tyrant, or a noisy sot:

If present, railing, till he saw her pain'd;
If absent, spending what their labours gain'd;
Till that fair form in want and sickness pin'd,
And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind.

Then fly temptation, youth; resist, refrain!
Nor let me preach for ever and in vain!

Y

THE SEXTON.

[From the same.]

My record ends;-but hark! ev'n now I hear

The bell of death, and know not whose to fear: Our farmers all and all our hinds were well; In no man's cottage, danger seem'd to dwell:— Yet death of man proclaim these heavy chimes, For thrice they sound, with pausing space, three times. "Go: of my sexton seek, whose days are sped?"— "What! he, himself! - - - and is old Dibble dead?" His eightieth year he reach'd still undecay'd, And rectors five to one close vault convey'd: But he is gone; his care and skill I lose, And gain a mournful subject for my muse: His masters lost, he'd oft in turn deplore, And kindly add, Heaven grant, I lose no more!" Yet while he spake, a sly and pleasant glance Appear'd at variance with his complaisance; For, as he told their fate and varying worth, He archly look'd, I yet may bear thee forth.' "When first"-(he so began)—“ my trade I ply'd, "Good master Addle was the parish-guide; "His clerk and sexton, I beheld with fear, "His stride majestic and his frown severe; "A noble pillar of the church he stood, "Adorn'd with college-gown and parish-hood; "Then, as he pac'd the hallow'd aisles about, "He fill'd the sevenfold surplice fairly out: "But in his pulpit wearied down with prayer, "He sat and seem'd in his study's chair; "For while the anthem swell'd, and when it ceas'd, "Th' expecting people view'd their slumbering priest; "Who dozing, died.-Our parson Peele was next: "I will not spare you,' was his favourite text: "Nor did he spare, but raised them many a pound; "Ev'n me he mulct for my poor rood of ground; "Yet car'd he nought, but with a gibing speech, "What should I do, quoth he, but what I preach

"His piercing jokes (and he'd a plenteous store)"
"Were daily offer'd both to rich and poor;
"His scorn, his love, in playful words he spoke ;
"His pity, praise, and promise, were a joke:
"But though so young, and blest with spirits high,
"He died as grave as any judge could die :
"The strong attack subdu'd his lively powers,-
"His was the grave and doctor Grandspear ours."
"Then were there golden times the village round;
"In his abundance all appear'd t' abound;
"Liberal and rich, a plenteous board he spread,
"Ev'n cool dissenters at his table fed;

"Who wish'd--and hop'd--and thought a man so kind,
"A way to Heaven, though not their own, might find;
"To them, to all, he was polite and free,

"Kind to the poor, and, ah! most kind to me:
"Ralph,' would he say, Ralph Dibble, thou art old;
"That doublet fit, 'twill keep thee from the cold:
66 'How does my sexton ?-What! the times are hard;
"Drive that stout pig and pen him in thy yard.'
"But most, his reverence lov'd a mirthful jest ;-
66 6 Thy coat is thin; why, man, thou'rt barely drest;
"Its worn to th' thread! but I have nappy beer

Clap that within, and see how they will wear.'
"Gay days were these; but they were quickly past:
"When first he came, we found he cou'dn't last:
"An whoreson cough (and at the fall of leaf)

Upset him quite :-but what's the gain of grief? "Then came the Author-Rector; his delight "Was all in books; to read them, or to write: "Women and men, he strove alike to shun,

And hurried homeward, when his tasks were done:
"Courteous enough, but careless what he said,
"For points of learning he reserv'd his head;
"And when addressing either poor or rich,
"He knew no better than his cassock which:
"He, like an osier, was of pliant kind,
"Erect by Nature, but to bend inclin'd;
"Not like a creeper falling to the ground,

"Or meanly catching on the neighbours round ;-
"Careless was he of surplice, hood, and band,-
"And kindly took them as they came to hand;
"Nor like the doctor wore a world of hat,
"As if he sought for dignity in that:

"He talk'd, he gave, but not with cautious rules :
"Nor turn'd from gypsies, vagabonds, or fools;
"It was his nature, but they thought it whim,
"And so our beaux and beauties turn'd from him:
"Of questions, much he wrote, profound and dark,—
"How spake the serpent, and where stopped the ark;

"From