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Thence fancy measures, as they parting fly,
Which first will throw its shadow on the eye,
Passing the source of light; and thence away,
Succeeded quick by brighter still than they;
For yet above these wafted clouds are seen
(In a remoter sky still more serene),
Others detached in ranges through the air,
Spotless as snow, and countless as they're fair;
Scattered immensely wide from east to west,
The beauteous semblance of a flock at rest."

Homer's celebrated night scene, as translated by Pope, is not more beautiful than the passage we have here quoted ; nor do we know where to turn amid all our great poets, to find, in the same number of lines, a more exquisite description of a calm winter sky, than the one here given by an uneducated Farmer's Boy. No one after reading it can, we think, doubt that genius is a gift; that poetry can never be taught in school or college; that education may refine and give a polish to a writer's style; but the great original well-spring of thought must first have an existence in the soul, and is as different from the meagre talent of mere verse writing, as the mock words of a parrot are from reason. He next describes the aged ash tree, which he mistakes for

"A grisly sceptre clothed in silver grey;"

familiar as the object was to him in the day-time, he forgot all about it as it stood singly before him in that narrow lane, its white bark fronting the pale moonlight, while many a strange shadow waved and played over his pathway, just as the night-wind rocked the topmost branches of the naked hawthorns. Admirably did he adopt these old superstitious feelings on a later day, when he told the tale of that ancient dame who was benighted in the vale of

Fakenham, and went along muttering many a prayer, with the ghost trotting at her heels. Winter draws to a close -days lengthen-there are patches of blue here and there in the sky, and the sun once more

"Gives to the reeking mead a brighter hue,
And draws the modest primrose-bud to view.
Yet frosts succeed, and winds impetuous rush,
And hail-stones rattle through the budding bush ;
And night-fallen lambs require the shepherd's care,
And teeming ewes, that still their burdens bear;
Beneath whose sides to-morrow's dawn may see
The milk-white strangers bow the trembling knee;
At whose first birth the powerful instinct's seen
That fills with champions the daisied green."

Amongst the richly illustrated books of the present day we must number a new edition of Bloomfield's Poems, published by Mr. Van Voorst; the designs are excellent, faithfully representing the passages they illustrate, and will, we have no doubt, through their truth and beauty, cause many to purchase Bloomfield's Works, who have hitherto known only by report, or a few occasional extracts, what numberless passages of true, simple, and sterling poetry, were written by the author of "The Farmer's Boy."

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"If gentlemen cannot breathe fresh air without injustice, let them putrefy in Cranbourne Alley. Make just laws, and let squires live and die where they please. The prisons are filled with peasants, shut up for the irregular slaughter of rabbits and birds, -a sufficient reason for killing a weasel, but not for imprisoning a man."

REV. SYDNEY SMITH'S WORKS, pp. 57, 63, vol. ii.

It was in the afternoon of a busy winter's day, when a tall, healthy-looking young man, wearing a smock frock and heavy ankle-boots, was seen crossing a footpath, which ran through a newly ploughed field and led to a small thatched cottage, the last which marked the long line of the village street. The peasant had gone a long way out of his road

to reach the cottage by this footpath; for although it was a pleasant summer's walk to a neighbouring hamlet, yet to gain it, and avoid passing through the open street, he had made a circuit of at least two miles; for he was ashamed of being seen, as he had but just returned from prison, where he had been confined three months for poaching. He opened the door, and as his wife arose with the child in her arms to kiss him, said, "Well, Mary, here I am again: I've come back like a bad penny."

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A tear started into the woman's eye, as she said, Never mind, John! it will come home to the gamekeeper, in some shape before he dies, for taking the false oath he did about you."

"And how have you gone on since I've been away?" inquired the husband, as he took up a child on each knee, and kissed them by turns.

"But very badly," answered she, sighing, “the Overseers tried all they could to persuade me to break up my home and go into the workhouse, but I refused, so they allowed me nothing. One poor neighbour and another helped me a little when they could, and the dear children have never wanted much." The tears chased each other down her cheeks as she spoke, and a glance at her careworn, though handsome features, told plainly that she had deprived herself of many a morsel for the sake of her children. "I have got nothing in the house but a little bread," added she; "would you like a crust after your walk?"

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No, I will wait a while," answered the husband." They allowed me a halfpenny a day for working on the treadmill, so I had three shillings to receive this morning when I left the prison. Go out and get a little bacon and potatoes; I have tasted neither for three months."

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He held the child-in-arms whilst the mother went out to the chandler's shop: and no sooner was her back turned than he examined the cupboard, the shelves of which were empty, saving of a little oatmeal in a jar, a small portion of salt, and the remains of a coarse brown loaf, and a few pieces of crockery. The wife returned with a frying-pan, which she had borrowed, having sold her own during her husband's imprisonment, together with the saucepan; so the potatoes were put on in the tin kettle. The husband watched every movement, and soon discovered the utter "nakedness of the land."

Their frugal meal over, and the children in bed, the young couple sat down to talk over their prospects. John's place in the farm had been filled up by another man and several of the villagers were at work on the roads, their wages one shilling per day—a sorry prospect with a wife and three children; so John sighed and shook his head, whilst his partner remarked, "that half a loaf was better than no bread, and matters would mend with the spring."

The husband applied next day to the overseers, and was placed to break stones on the highroad. He was much respected by his fellow-labourers; and to welcome his return they in the evening went into the village alehouse to treat him to a pint and a pipe. Whilst seated on the long settle before a comfortable fire, talking over old times, the gamekeeper entered with his dog and gun, and took his seat on the opposite bench. The first words exchanged between the two were, "Well, informer!" and, "Well, gaol-bird!" The landlord chanced to enter, or the altercation would soon have risen high; as it was, they each confined themselves to a little savage recrimination.

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