Not with more joy the school-boys run

To the gay green fields, when their task is done; Not with more haste the members fly,

When Hume has caught the Speaker's eye.

At last the daylight came; and then
A score or two of serving men,
Supposing that some sad disaster

Had happened to their lord and master,
Went out into the wood, and found him,
Unhorsed, and with no mantle round him.
Ere he could tell his tale romantic,
The leech pronounced him clearly frantic,
So ordered him at once to bed,
And clapped a blister on his head.

Within the sound of the castle-clock
There stands a huge and rugged rock,
And I have heard the peasants say,
That the grieving groom at noon that day
Found gallant Roland, cold and stiff,

At the base of the black and beetling cliff.
Beside the rock there is an oak,
Tall, blasted by the thunder-stroke,
And I have heard the peasants say,
That there Sir Rudolph's mantle lay,
And coiled in many a deadly wreath
A venomous serpent slept beneath.

EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS.

I. THE VICAR.

SOME years ago, ere Time and Taste
Had turned our parish topsy-turvy,
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,
And roads as little known as scurvy,
The man who lost his way between
St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket,
Was always shown across the Green,
And guided to the Parson's wicket.

Back flew the bolt of lisson lath;

Fair Margaret in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveller up the path,

Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle:

And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,

Upon the parlor steps collected,

Wagged all their tails and seemed to say,

"Our master knows you; you're expected!"

Up rose the Reverend Dr. Brown,

Up rose the Doctor's "winsome marrow;" The lady lay her knitting down,

Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow; Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,

Pundit or papist, saint or sinner, He found a stable for his steed,

And welcome for himself, and dinner.

If, when he reached his journey's end,
And warmed himself in court or college,
He had not gained an honest friend,

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge;If he departed as he came,

With no new light on love or liquor,Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar.

His talk was like a stream which runs
With rapid change from rock to roses:
It slipped from politics to puns:

It passed from Mahomet to Moses:
Beginning with the laws which keep

The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep

For dressing ells or shoeing horses.

He was a shrewd and sound divine,

Of loud Dissent and mortal terror; And when, by dint of page and line,

He 'stablished Truth, or started Error,

The Baptist found him far too deep;

The Deist sighed with saving sorrow; And the lean Levite went to sleep,

And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow.

His sermon never said or showed

That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious, Without refreshment on the road

From Jerome, or from Athanasius;

And sure a righteous zeal inspired

The hand and head that penned and planned them,

For all who understood, admired,

And some who did not understand them.

He wrote, too, in a quiet way,

Small treatises, and smaller verses;
And sage remarks on chalk and clay,
And hints to noble lords and nurses ;
True histories of last year's ghost,
Lines to a ringlet or a turban ;
And trifles for the Morning Post,
And nothing for Sylvanus Urban.

He did not think all mischief fair,
Although he had a knack of joking;
He did make himself a bear,

Although he had a taste for smoking:
And when religious sects ran mad,

He held, in spite of all his learning, That if a man's belief is bad,

It will not be improved by burning.

And he was kind, and loved to sit
In the low hut or garnished cottage,
And praise the farmer's homely wit,
And share the widow's homelier pottage:
At his approach complaint grew mild,

And when his hand unbarred the shutter, The clammy lips of Fever smiled

The welcome which they could not utter.

He always had a tale for me

Of Julius Cæsar or of Venus:

From him I learned the rule of three, Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quæ genus;

I used to singe his powdered wig,

To steal the staff he put such trust in; And make the puppy dance a jig

When he began to quote Augustin.

Alack the change! in vain I look

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled;

The level lawn, the trickling brook,

The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled :

The church is larger than before;
You reach it by a carriage entry :
It holds three hundred people more:
up for gentry.

And

pews are fitted

Sit in the Vicar's seat: you'll hear

The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear, Whose tone is very Ciceronian.