Nor thus beneath the straw-roof'd cot,
Alone-should thoughts of thee pervade
Hearts which confess thee unforgot,
On heathy hill, in grassy glade :

In many a spot by thee array'd
With hues of thought, with fancy's gleam,
Thy memory lives!-in EUSTON's shade,
By BARNHAM WATER'S shadeless stream!
And long may guileless hearts preserve

The memory of thy song, and thee :While Nature's healthful feelings nerve The arm of labour toiling free;

While Childhood's innocence and glee With green Old Age enjoyment share ;RICHARDS and KATES shall tell of thee, WALTERS and JANES thy name declare.

On themes like these, if yet there breath'd
A Doric Lay so sweet as thine,
Might artless flowers of verse be wreath'd
Around thy modest name to twine :—
And though nor lute nor lyre be mine
To bid thy minstrel honours live,
The praise my numbers can assign,
It still is soothing thus to give.

There needs, in truth, no lofty lyre

To yield thy Muse her homage due ;
The praise her loveliest charms inspire
Should be as artless, simple too;
Her eulogist should keep in view
Thy meek and unassuming worth,
And inspiration should renew

At springs which gave thine own its birth.

Those springs may boast no classic name
To win the smile of letter'd pride,
Yet is their noblest charm the same
As that by CASTALY supplied;
From AGANIPPE's crystal tide
No brighter, fairer waves can start,
Than Nature's quiet teachings guide
From feeling's fountain o'er the heart.

"Tis to THE HEART Song's noblest power—
Taste's purest precepts must refer;
And Nature's tact, not Art's proud dower,
Remains its best interpreter:

He who shall trust, without demur,
What his own better feelings teach,
Although unlearn'd, shall seldom err,

But to the hearts of others reach.

It is not quaint and local terms
Besprinkled o'er thy rustic lay,
Though well such dialect confirms

Its power unletter'd minds to sway,
But 'tis not these that most display
Thy sweetest charms, thy gentlest thrall,—
Words, phrases, fashions pass away,
But TRUTH and NATURE live through all.
These, these have given thy rustic lyre

Its truest, and its tenderest spell; These amid Britain's tuneful choir

Shall give thy honour'd name to dwell: And when Death's shadowy curtain fell Upon thy toilsome earthly lot,

With grateful joy thy heart might swell To feel that these reproach'd thee not,

To feel that thou hadst not incurr'd

The deep compunction, bitter shame, Of prostituting gifts conferr'd

To strengthen Virtue's hallow'd claim. How much more glorious is the name, The humble name which thou hast won, Than-" damn'd with everlasting fame," To be for fame itself undone.

Better, and nobler was thy choice

To be the Bard of simple swains,—

In all their pleasures to rejoice,

And soothe with sympathy their pains;
To paint with feeling in thy strains

The themes their thoughts and tongues discuss, And be, though free from classic chains,

Our own more chaste THEOCRITUS.

For this should SUFFOLK proudly own
Her grateful, and her lasting debt ;-
How much more proudly-had she known
That pining care, and keen regret,—
Thoughts which the fever'd spirits fret,
And slow disease,-'twas thine to bear ;-
And, ere thy sun of life was set,
Had won her Poet's grateful prayer.

"TIS NOW TOO LATE ! the scene is clos'd,
Thy conflicts borne,-thy trials o'er ;-
And in the peaceful grave repos'd

That frame which pain shall rack no more ;Peace to the Bard whose artless store Was spread for Nature's lowliest child; Whose song, well meet for peasant lore,

Was lowly, simple, undefil'd.

Yet long may guileless hearts preserve
The memory of thy verse and thee;-
While nature's healthful feelings nerve
The arm of labour toiling free.
While SUFFOLK PEASANTRY may be
Such as thy sweetest tales make known,—
By cottage-hearth, by greenwood tree,
Be BLOOMFIELD call'd with pride their own!

London Magazine.

ELEGIAC STANZAS,

Written by an Officer long resident in India, on his return to England.

THE following Stanzas are worthy of being committed to memory by young and old. They paint life and the fallacy of human expectations in their true colours, remove the veil which fancy had thrown over them, and shew how different are the mellowed and subdued feelings of declining age from the ardour of youth, and its vivid imaginings of undying bliss.-Ed.

1.

I came, but they had pass'd away,—
The fair in form, the pure in mind,—
And, like a stricken deer, I stray,

Where all are strange, and none are kind;

Kind to the worn, the wearied soul,

That pants, that struggles for repose:

O that my steps had reached the goal
Where earthly sighs and sorrows close.

2.

Years have past o'er me like a dream,

That leaves no trace on memory's page: I look around me, and I seem

Some relic of a former age. Alone, as in a stranger-clime,

Where stranger-voices mock my ear; I mark the lagging course of time, Without a wish,—a hope, a fear!

3.

Yet I had hopes, and they have fled;
And I had fears were all too true:
My wishes too!-but they are dead,
And what have I with life to do!
"Tis but to bear a weary load,

I may not, dare not, cast away;
To sigh for one small, still, abode,
Where I may sleep as sweet as they:-

4.

As they, the loveliest of their race,

Whose grassy tombs my sorrows steep; Whose worth my soul delights to trace,Whose very loss 'tis sweet to weep; To weep beneath the silent moon,

With none to chide, to hear, to see:

Life can bestow no dearer boon

On one whom death disdains to free.

5.

I leave a world that knows me not,
To hold communion with the dead;
And fancy consecrates the spot

Where fancy's softest dreams are shed.