IIENHY KIRKE WHITE S POEMS. 



But all is pregnant with unmixt delight ; 

 To thee I turn from riot and from noise, — 

 Turn to partake of more congenial jojs. 



'Neath yonder elm, that stands upon the moor, 



When the cloct spoke the hour of labour o'er, 



What clamorous throngs, what happy groups were seen, 



In various postures scattering o'er the green ! 



Some shoot the marble, others join the chace 



Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race ; 



While others, seated on the dappled grass. 



With doleful tales the light-wing'd minutes pass. 



Well I remember how, with gesture starch'd, 



A band of soldiers, oft with pride we march'd ; 



For banners, to a tall ash we did bind 



Our handkerchiefs, flapping to the whistling wind ; 



And for our warlike arms we sought the mead, 



And guns and spears we made of brittle reed ; 



Then, in uncouth array, our feats to crown, 



We storm'd some ruin'd pig-sty for a town. 



Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was wont 



To set her wheel before the cottage front, 



And o'er her spectacles would often peer. 



To view our gambols, and our boyish gear. 



Still as she look'd, her wheel kept turning round. 



With its beloved monotony of sound. 



When tired with play, we'd set us by her side, 



(For out of school she never knew to chide) — 



And wonder at her skill — well known to fame — 



For who could match in spinning with the dame ? 



Her sheets, her linen, which she show'd with pride 



To strangers, still her thriftness testified ; 



Though we poor wights did wonder much, in troth, 



How 'twas her spinning manufactured cloth. 



Oft would we leave, though well beloved, our play, 

 To chat at home the vac§nt hour away. 

 Many's the time I've scampered down the glade, 

 To ask the promised ditty from the roaid, 



