His old roan horfe, that, o'er his acres free,
Stray'd, or by funny hill, or fhady tree,

That own'd with pride, each faithful service past,
A generous master's kindness to the last.

The fhaggy mane, the hoof with tufts o'ergrown,
The toothless jaws, each rib a staring bone,
Sunk in its focket the dim'd eye of glass,

And knees that scarce fuftain'd the tottering mafs--
Say, could the skeleton breathe vital air?

Yes! memory, gratitude ftill linger'd there!
If, in the mead or park he miss'd his Roan,
The Knight, with fears confest by love alone,
Would pierce the skirting thicket, or of thorn
Or birch, tho' cover'd by the drops of morn,
Then, chiding, as affection oft hath chid,
Hail his poor friend, by holly-leaves half hid;
While Roany haften'd thro' the rustling shade,
And to his prattling mafter fondly neigh'd!
Yes! to his old companion would he talk-
The last kind office of his morning-walk;

When, ere he reach'd the porch, perhaps he stole
Quick glances from the partner of his foul,

And hail'd, with rapture beaming from his eyes,
The blush that, foft as Maia's orient fkies,
Ting'd her ambrofial cheeks !-when, arm in arm,
With all the cordial looks, the language warni
Of vernal life, they faunter'd to the porch,
As if young Love that moment wav'd the torch!

Meantime, the watchful RACHEL knew full well, To rouse each menial by the pealing bell; The drowsy maiden from her bed-room rout, And from his pillow fright the prentice-lout, (Pulling the heavy fnorer's redden'd ears, And bidding him unclofe his eyes in tears) And mark, ere long, with afh-wood bucket white, The milkmaid's footsteps o'er the meadow light, Greet the pois'd pail, without o'erflowing, full," And, if the loiter'd, chide the lazy trull; Suit to the scalding* milk it's gentle heat; The cream, cool-finger'd, into butter beat,

* The process of scalding cream (a practice peculiar to Cornwall, Devonshire, and a part of Somerset) is fo generally known, that I need not here describe it; though I have not left it unnoticed in " THE HISTORY OF DEVONSHIRE."

(Such folid cream* as once without a crack

Bore, tho' scarce cold, a pound upon it's back ;)
Adjust the curdled cheeses to the wring,†

(TO RACHEL fragrant as the breath of spring)

Or give the unfalted butter made anew,
To gather healing influence from the dew,
As, fet upon the haw's thick-matted thorn,
It drank the rofy moisture of May-morn.

And ever shall she boast abundant milk,

Cream rich as gold, and cheeses smooth as filk,

While the kind Fayes, whom cream-bowls ftill at

tach,

The curious process of the dairy watch,
On May-dew butter balmier fweets diftil,

And with the fatteft curd the preffes fill.

But in the porch, where woodbine mix'd its hue With scented bay, the glittering fand to strew,

Cream bearing a pound weight, a few days after scalding,

is not uncommon.-But Madam RACHEL's is rare cream!
+ The cheefe-prefs, in Cornwall the cheefe-wring.

And there, the gold-rim'd cups, the steaming urn,

To fet, ere nine, was RACHEL's prime concern.

Tho' obsolete in this fastidious age,

Sir HUMPHREY was regal'd with genuine fage;
But HARRIET he indulg'd with hyfon tea:

Yet would he cry, "No Indian* herbs for me
"Stuff, that fo much the fashion to import, is!

"Cur moriatur homo, cum falvia crefcit in hor

"tis?"

Then, hunger for his fauce, and, nothing nice,

Cut from the buttock a convenient slice,

And (often to the wonder of his wife)

Salute the foreright † with as keen a knife.

* I once heard an old gentleman exclaim in a fimilar manner, though, like our Knight, he was fond of that Indian herb tobacco. So inconfiftent is man!

+ "Foreright" is the coarseft fort of wheaten bread, made of the meal, with all the bran, and not what we term in Cornwall, "fecond bread," though it may probably answer to the panis fecundus of Horace-vivit filiquis et pane fecundo.

As "found (the Knight lov'd proverbs) as a

"roach,"

He ftaunch'd his ftomach ere Mifs PRUE's ap

proach;

Tho' if fhe chanc'd her chamber to unlock

'Twas fuch a rarity-ere ten o'clock,

He oft would wait her yawning and red eyes
With looks that feem'd to teftify furprize,

And, with a fhrug of archnefs, tho' by rote,
Words of oracular importance quote:

"Sanat (Mifs PRUE) fanctificat, ditefcit!"
"And a moft wholesome proverb all confefs it-”
When Mifs would tofs her nofe up, and cry, "La!
"'Tis fhocking-petrifying quite, papa!
"Such vulgar nonfenfe!"-" Well! I wish I knew
"But Latin, like as brother knows, Miss PRUE!"
"No, fifter! (he would utter, fomewhat rough)
"One tongue for any woman is enough!

"But, rather on our rights may females trench, "Than to their grinning monkeys jabber French

Qui mihi rather with their parrots cap,

"And teach their Tripseys Latin, ere they lap!"