Such o'er thy level turf, Newmarket! stray,
And there, with other black-legs (1), find their prey:
He saw some scatter'd hovels; turf was piled

In

square brown stacks; a prospect bleak and wild! A mill, indeed, was in the centre found,

With short sear herbage withering all around;
A smith's black shed opposed a wright's long shop,
And join'd an inn where humble travellers stop.

66

Ay, this is Nature," said the gentle 'Squire; "This ease, peace, pleasure-who would not ad

mire?

"With what delight these sturdy children play, "And joyful rustics at the close of day; "Sport follows labour, on this even space "Will soon commence the wrestling and the race; Then will the village-maidens leave their home, And to the dance with buoyant spirits come; "No affectation in their looks is seen,

"Nor know they what disguise or flattery mean; "Nor aught to move an envious pang they see,

Easy their service, and their love is free;

"Hence early springs that love, it long endures, "And life's first comfort, while they live, ensures : "They the low roof and rustic comforts prize, "Nor cast on prouder mansions envying eyes: "Sometimes the news at yonder town they hear, "And learn what busier mortals feel and fear;

(1) [" Gamblers, or sharpers, on the turf or in the cock-pit; so called, perhaps, from their appearing generally in boots, or else from game-cocks, whose legs are always black." - GROSE.]

"Secure themselves, although by tales amazed,
"Of towns bombarded and of cities razed;
"As if they doubted, in their still retreat,
"The very news that makes their quiet sweet,
"And their days happy-happier only knows
"He on whom Laura her regard bestows."

On rode Orlando, counting all the while
The miles he pass'd, and every coming mile ;
Like all attracted things, he quicker flies,
The place approaching where th' attraction lies ;
When next appear'd a dam so call the place-
Where lies a road confined in narrow space;

A work of labour, for on either side

Is level fen, a prospect wild and wide,

With dikes on either hand by ocean's self supplied:
Far on the right the distant sea is seen,

And salt the springs that feed the marsh between;
Beneath an ancient bridge, the straiten'd flood
Rolls through its sloping banks of slimy mud;
Near it a sunken boat resists the tide,
That frets and hurries to th' opposing side;
The rushes sharp, that on the borders grow,
Bend their brown flow'rets to the stream below,
Impure in all its course, in all its progress slow:
Here a grave Flora (1) scarcely deigns to bloom,
Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume;

(1) The ditches of a fen so near the ocean are lined with irregular patches of a coarse and stained lava; a muddy sediment rests on the horse-tail and other perennial herbs, which in part conceal the shallowness of the stream; a fat-leaved pale-flowering scurvy-grass appears early in the year, and the razor-edged bull-rush in the summer and autumn. The fen itself has a dark and saline herbage; there are rushes and arrow-head, and

The few dull flowers that o'er the place are spread
Partake the nature of their fenny bed;

Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom,
Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume;
Here the dwarf sallows creep, the septfoil harsh,
And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh;
Low on the ear the distant billows sound,
And just in view appears their stony bound;
No hedge nor tree conceals the glowing sun,
Birds, save a watʼry tribe, the district shun,
Nor chirp among the reeds where bitter waters run.(1)

"Various as beauteous, Nature, is thy face," Exclaim'd Orlando: "all that grows has grace; "All are appropriate—bog, and marsh, and fen, "Are only poor to undiscerning men ;

"Here may the nice and curious eye explore "How Nature's hand adorns the rushy moor;

in a few patches the flakes of the cotton-grass are seen, but more commonly the sea-aster, the dullest of that numerous and hardy genus; the thrift, blue in flower, but withering and remaining withered till the winter scatters it; the saltwort, both simple and shrubby; a few kinds of grass changed by their soil and atmosphere, and low plants of two or three denominations undistinguished in a general view of the scenery; — such is the vegetation of the fen when it is at a small distance from the ocean; and in this case there arise from it effluvia strong and peculiar, half saline, half putrid, which would be considered by most people as offensive, and by some as dangerous; but there are others to whom singularity of taste or association of ideas has rendered it agreeable and pleasant.

(1) [This picture of a fen is what few other artists would have thought of attempting, and no other than Mr. Crabbe could possibly have executed. The features of the fine country are less perfectly drawn: but what, indeed, could be made of the vulgar fine country of England? If Mr. Crabbe had had the good fortune to live among our Highland hills, and lakes, and upland woods-our living floods sweeping the forests of pine-our lonely vales and rough copse-covered cliffs; what a delicious picture would his unrivalled powers have enabled him to give to the world.—JEFFREY.)

"Here the rare moss in secret shade is found,
"Here the sweet myrtle of the shaking ground;
"Beauties are these that from the view retire,
"But well repay th' attention they require ;
"For these, my Laura will her home forsake,
"And all the pleasures they afford partake."

Again, the country was enclosed, a wide And sandy road has banks on either side; Where, lo a hollow on the left appear'd, And there a Gipsy-tribe their tent had rear'd; 'Twas open spread, to catch the morning sun, And they had now their early meal begun, When two brown boys just left their grassy seat, The early Trav❜ller with their prayers to greet: While yet Orlando held his pence in hand, He saw their sister on her duty stand; Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly, Prepared the force of early powers to try; Sudden a look of languor he descries, And well-feign'd apprehension in her eyes; Train'd but yet savage, in her speaking face He mark'd the features of her vagrant race; When a light laugh and roguish leer express'd The vice implanted in her youthful breast: Forth from the tent her elder brother came, Who seem'd offended, yet forbore to blame The young designer, but could only trace The looks of pity in the Trav'ller's face: Within, the Father, who from fences nigh Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply, Watch'd now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected

[by:

On ragged rug, just borrow'd from the bed,
And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed,
In dirty patchwork negligently dress'd,
Reclined the Wife, an infant at her breast;
In her wild face some touch of grace
remain❜d,
Of vigour palsied and of beauty stain'd;
Her blood-shot eyes on her unheeding mate
Were wrathful turn'd, and seem'd her wants to state,
Cursing his tardy aid-her Mother there
With gipsy-state engross'd the only chair;
Solemn and dull her look; with such she stands,
And reads the milk-maid's fortune in her hands,
Tracing the lines of life; assumed through years,
Each feature now the steady falsehood wears:
With hard and savage eye she views the food,
And grudging pinches their intruding brood;
Last in the group, the worn-out Grandsire sits
Neglected, lost, and living but by fits;
Useless, despised, his worthless labours done,
And half protected by the vicious Son,
Who half supports him; he with heavy glance
Views the young ruffians who around him dance;
And, by the sadness in his face, appears

To trace the progress of their future years:
Through what strange course of misery, vice, deceit,
Must wildly wander each unpractised cheat!
What shame and grief, what punishment and pain,
Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain
Ere they like him approach their latter end,
Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend! (1)

(1) [This picture is evidently finished con amore, and appears to us to be absolutely perfect, both in its moral and its physical expression. — JEFFREY.]