A poem on Spring I could indite,
Through a whole canto I could run it;
But then I feel 'tis useless quite,
For Thomson has already done it.
He's worked the subject through and through,
Looked at it under all its phases;
Yes, he's drained dry the very dew,
And threadbare he has worn the daisies.
Each little flower he's made his own,
Not one to future bards resigning;
From buttercup, that stands alone,
To jasmine round a door-post twining.
To try on such a theme to sing
Were only labour lost indeed;
So well has Thomson touched the Spring,
Succeeding poets can't succeed.
Shall I describe the tender bean,
Turning its head with caution round,
As if half-fearful to be seen
Bursting so early from the ground?
Or shall I sing the parsley mild,
Nipped by the cold autumnal frost;
Like a well-meaning forward child,
In its advances sternly crossed?
No! let me inspiration seek
Where villagers, in cheerful clump,
With health bedecking ev'ry cheek,
Are clustering round the local pump.
That pump which, e'en as memory's tear
Gives freshness to a heart that's saddish,
By pouring out its liquid clear,
Revives once more the drooping radish.
Or shall I sing that nice spring-van,
By pleasure-parties often sought,
When they're in treaty with a man
To drive them down to Hampton Court?
To-day a cargo of the fair,
To-morrow moving goods its duty;
That van must its allegiance share
'Twixt furniture and female beauty.
THE BLIGHTED ASH.
A STORY OF A SEARED BOSOM.
It was May! the merry month of May, and bees from flower to flower did
melodiously hum, when a traveller, wrapped in an old weather-stricken
Macintosh, wound down the little hill that enters the little village of
Somerton. The old clock had just struck the hour of sunset, and the lark
retired to his nest; the screech-owl was beginning to tune his voice for
his nocturnal screeching; while the bat, wrapped in contemplation, kept
his keen eye steadily fixed on the setting sun, which had begun to gild
the highest peak of the distant mountains. Alas! it is ever thus: man in
his haughty pride, like the mountain holding its head high above those
by which it is surrounded, only acknowledges the smile when it is too
late to take advantage of the warmth; or, to use a more homely
illustration, we cherish the ray, though we may have neglected the
meridian.
By this time the stranger had reached the bottom of the hill, and in a
few minutes he was seated before a foaming tankard of ginger-beer, and a
generous plate of captain's biscuits, in the parlour of the little
hostelry of Somerton. The host of the "Blighted Ash"—such was the name
of the hostelry—was a man a little above the middle stature, with
firmly-knit knees, a pair of shoulders slightly rounded, a forehead
bronzed by repeated exposure to an autumn sun, a capacious chest, and an
upper lip with that peculiar curl which is the sure sign of native
aristocracy. The traveller eyed him with searching interest, and the
landlord returned glance for glance, as he replenished the invigorating
pot, at the desire of his customer. At length the latter invited the
former to partake of his cheer, and the stranger having pushed the
captain's biscuits towards the host of the "Blighted Ash," both of them
fell into a profound silence, which was only disturbed by the ticking of
the clock, or the loud laugh of revelry in another room in the hostelry.
Nearly an hour had elapsed, when the stranger, drawing his chair close
to that of his companion, looked steadily in his face, and throwing off
a flaxen wig, discovered a natural head of hair, in which Rowland seemed
to have combined with Oldridge, for the hair displayed all the gloss of
the Macassar, added to all the vigour of the Balm of Columbia. It was
but the work of an instant; and in another moment the stranger was
locked in the arms of the innkeeper, while the latter murmured out "My
son!" and the former shrieked—"My father!"
* * * * *
Both of them, a few days afterwards, left the "Blighted Ash," never to
return; and many a legend did the village gossips relate, of how the
landlord of the "Blighted Ash" at last found a balm for his seared
bosom.
[Illustration:
GOING TO S^t. PAUL'S.
]