170 SONNET. 



be the worse for it either here or hereafter ; but you will gain doubly, 

 I am sure, for we will pay you both in money and in gratitude." 



She had thrown herself before him in the ardour of the moment ; 

 her upturned face, flushed with eager expectation, contrasted beau- 

 tifully with the old man's look of calm benignity ; his eyes glistened, 

 and his hand shook, as he patted her gently on the head, and said, in 

 his quiet way, " You shall have the land, Mary." 



If you ever travel on the road between London and Bristol, you 

 may remark, a few miles from Reading, a thatched cottage about 

 fifty yards from the road side. Ivy and clematis, and all sorts of 

 creepers, are tangled about the porch and low windows ; there is a 

 small plot of grass in front, and a shrubbery round it, with an arbour 

 on one side ; and every thing has that look of general neatness and 

 comfort, so peculiarly English, that if you were suddenly dropped 

 from the clouds, turned round three times, and bid to guess what 

 country you were in, you would point to the cottage, and say at once, 

 oh ! England, England ! Should you pass on a summer evening, 

 about sunset, stop your carriage for a minute, and look at the group 

 in the arbour ; a stout good-looking man is sitting on the bench, with 

 a mug of ale before him, and a little child lolling against his knee ; 

 beside him is his wife, dancing about a crowing baby, and looking so 

 happy that the very sight " fills one's eyes with pleasant tears ;" 

 then think of the story I have just related : that young and happy 

 mother was the destitute orphan Mary ; that hale and hearty yeoman 

 was once Robinson the pauper. T. C. 



SONNET. 



BY SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. 



THE solemn hours of midnight may oppress 

 With fear the minds of others : but to me 

 The silence is a luxury of soul. 

 It is the nurse sincere of meditation. 

 Others may find their only happiness 

 In busy scenes and noises that control 

 The thought serene and pangs of memory ; 

 But the Bard lives in spiritual creation. 

 'Tis when all outward objects by a veil 

 Are from the senses hid, the fertile mind 

 With greater vigour can the visions hail, 

 Which on the inward mirror are design'd : 

 'Tis in the mind all bliss or evil lies ; 

 The body has no wings to reach the skies. 



