To live, indeed, is to be again ourselves, which being not only an hope, but an evidence in noble believers, 'tis all one to lie in St Innocent's churchyard, as in the sands of Egypt. Ready to be anything, in the ecstasy of being ever, and as content with six foot as the moles of Adrianus.

Harvest.

VARIOUS.

THE glad harvest-time has not been neglected by the poets. THOMSON takes us into "the ripened field" with his solemn cadences:

Soon as the morning trembles o'er the sky,
And, unperceived, unfolds the spreading day;
Before the ripen'd field the reapers stand
In fair array; each by the lass he loves,
To bear the rougher part, and mitigate
By nameless gentle offices her toil.

At once they stoop, and swell the lusty sheaves,
While through their cheerful band the rural talk,
The rural scandal, and the rural jest,

Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time,
And steal unfelt the sultry hours away.

Behind the master walks, builds up the shocks;
And, conscious, glancing oft on every side
His sated eye, feels his heart heave with joy.
The gleaners spread around, and here and there,
Spike after spike, their scanty harvest pick.
Be not too narrow, husbandman! but fling
From the full sheaf, with charitable stealth,
The liberal handful. Think, oh! think,
How good the God of harvest is to you,
Who pours abundance o'er your flowing fields;
While these unhappy partners of your kind
Wide hover round you, like the fowls of heaven,

***

L

And ask their humble dole. The various turns
Of fortune ponder; that your sons may want
What now, with hard reluctance, faint, ye give.

The prosaic character of the field-work is somewhat changed when we hear the song of WORDSWORTH'S solitary reaper :

But all the practical poetry of Harvest-Home belongs to a past time. Will it ever come again as HERRICK has described it?

With upper stories, mutton, veal,
And bacon, which makes full the
meal,

With sev'ral dishes standing by,
As, here a custard, there a pie,
And here all-tempting frumentie;
And for to make the merry cheer,
If smirking wine be wanting here,
There's that which drowns all care,
stout beer;

To the rough sickle, and crooked scythe,
Drink, frolic, boys, till all be blythe.
Feed and grow fat, and as ye eat,
Be mindful that the lab'ring neat,
As you, may have their full of meat;
And know, besides, you must revoke
The patient ox unto the yoke,
And all go back unto the plough
And harrow, though they're hanged

up now.

Which freely drink to your lord's And you must know your lord's word's

health, as

Then to the plough, the common

wealth,

true,

Feed him ye must, whose food fills you.

Next to your flails, your fanes, your And that this pleasure is like rain,

fatts; bar

Then to the maids with wheaten hats;

Not sent ye for to drown your pain,
But for to make it spring again.

Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go, Which, though well soiled, yet thou dost know

We want the spirit of brotherhood to bring back the English country life which gladdened the hearts of the old poets :— Sweet country life to such unknown, Whose lives are others', not their own; But serving courts and cities, ber Less happy, less enjoying thee. Thou never plough'st the ocean's foam To seek and bring rough pepper home;

Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove

To bring from thence the scorched
clove;

Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest,
Bring'st home the ingot from the west:
No, thy ambition's master-piece
Flies no thought higher than a fleece;
Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear
All scores, and so to end the
But walk'st about thine own
bounds,

That the best compost for the lands
Is the wise master's feet and hands:
There at the plough thou find'st thy
team,

With a hind whistling there to them;
And cheer'st them up, by singing
how

The kingdom's portion is the plough:
This done, then to the enamell'd

meads

Thou go'st, and, as thy foot there treads,

Thou seest a present god-like power Imprinted in each herb and flower; OF JON BRINCAnd smell'st the breath of great-eyed

Not envying others' larger grounds; sud
For well thou know'st 'tis not the

extent

Of land makes life, but sweet content. When now the cock, the ploughman's horn,

Calls forth the lily-wristed morn,

kine,

Sweet as the blossoms of the vine;
Here thou behold'st thy large sleak

neat

Unto the dew-laps up in meat;
And as thou look'st, the wanton steer,
The heifer, cow, and ox draw near,

To make a pleasing pastime there; These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks

Thy mummeries, thy twelve-tide kings
And queens, thy Christmas revellings,
Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit,
And no man pays too dear for it;
To these thou hast thy times to go
And trace the hare i̇' th' treacherous

Of sheep safe from the wolf and fox,
And find'st their bellies there as full
Of short sweet grass, as backs with
wool;
And leav'st them, as they feed and fill, Thy witty wiles to draw and get
A shepherd piping on a hill.

For sports, for pageantry and plays,
Thou hast thy eves and holidays;
On which the young men and maids

meet

To exercise their dancing feet,
Tripping the homely country round,
With daffodils and daisies crown'd.
Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou
hast,

Thy May-poles too, with garlands
graced,

Thy morris-dance, thy whitsun-ale,
Thy shearing-feast, which never fail,
Thy harvest-home, thy wassail bowl,
That's toss'd up after Fox i' th' hole,

snow;

The lark into the trammel-net;
Thou hast thy cockrood and thy glade,
To take the precious pheasant made;
Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pitfalls,
then

To catch the pilfering birds, not men.
Oh, happy life! if that their good
Their husbandmen but understood;
Who all the day themselves do please,
And younglings with such sports as
these ;

And, lying down, have nought ť
affright

Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night.

HERRICK.

The last poet who has described Harvest-Home was BLOOMFIELD, the "Farmer's Boy." Even this solitary festival belongs, we fear, to the things that were before the flood.

Here once a year distinction lowers her crest;

The master, servant, and the merry guest,
Are equal, all; and round the happy ring
The reaper's eyes exulting glances fling,
And warm'd with gratitude he quits his place,
With sunburnt hands, and ale-enlivened face,
Refills the jug his honoured host to tend,
To serve at once the master and the friend;
Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale,
His nuts, his conversation, and his ale.

Mobing Onward.

H. MARTINEAU.

[The following reflective passage is from Miss Martineau's admirable novel of "Deerbrook." Whatever differences of opinion may exist as to the tendencies of some of this lady's works-and no modern writer has been more attacked by unjust prejudices—no candid mind can doubt that the mainspring of her writings was an ardent desire for the well-being of the human race. Miss Martineau was born 1802; died 1876.]

The world rolls on, let what will be happening to the individuals who occupy it. The sun rises and sets, seed-time and harvest come and go, generations arise and pass away, law and authority hold on their course, while hundreds of millions of human hearts have stirring within them struggles and emotions eternally new ;and experience so diversified as that no two days appear alike to any one, and to no two does any one day appear the same. There is something so striking in this perpetual contrast between the external uniformity and internal variety of the procedure of existence, that it is no wonder that multitudes have formed a conception of Fate of a mighty unchanging power, blind to the differences of spirits, and deaf to the appeals of human delight and misery; a huge insensible force, beneath which all that is spiritual is sooner or later wounded, and is ever liable to be crushed. This conception of fate is grand, is natural, and fully warranted to minds too lofty to be satisfied with the details of human life, but which have not risen to the far higher conception of a Providence to whom this uniformity and variety are but means to a higher end than they apparently involve. There is infinite blessing in having reached the nobler conception; the feeling of helplessness is relieved; the craving for sympathy from the ruling power is satisfied; there is a hold for veneration; there is room for hope; there is, above all, the stimulus and support of an end perceived or anticipated; a purpose which steeps in sanctity all human experience. Yet even where this blessing is the most fully felt and recognised, the spirit cannot but be at times overwhelmed by the vast regu