Look at that window, you may trace
At every pane a laughing face. 
Yon graceful Girl and her smart Lover,
And in the story just above her,
The Housemaid, with her hair in papers,
All finding Punch a cure for vapours. 
E’en the pale Dandy, fresh from France,
Throws on the group an eye askance;
Twirls his moustache, and seems to fear
That some gay friend may catch him here. 
The Widowed wretch, who only fed,
On bitter thoughts and tear-wash’d bread,
Forgets her cares, and seems to smile
To see friend Punch her babe beguile. 
Magician of the wounded heart,
Oh! there thy wonted aid impart: 
Long be the merryman of our Isle,
And win the universal smile!

CONTENT.

In some lone hamlet it were better far
  To live unknown amid Contentment’s isle,
Than court the bauble of an air-blown star,
  Or barter honour for a prince’s smile!

Hail! tranquil-brow’d Content, forth sylvan god,
  Who lov’st to sit beside some cottage fire,
Where the brown presence of the blazing clod
  Regales the aspect of the aged sire.

There, when the Winter’s children, bleak and cold,
  Are through December’s gloomy regions led;
The church-yard tale of sheeted ghost is told,
  While fix’d attention dares not turn its head.

Or if the tale of ghost, or pigmy sprite,
  Is stripp’d by theme more cheerful of its power,
The song employs the early dim of night,
  Till village-curfew counts a later hour.

And oft the welcome neighbour loves to stop,
  To tell the market news, to laugh, and sing,
O’er the loved circling jug, whose old brown top
  Is wet with kisses from the florid ring!

There, whilst the cricket chirps its chimney song,
  Within some crumbling chink, with moss embrown’d,
The lighted stick diverts the infant throng,
  And fans are waved, and ribbands twirl’d around.

Entwine for me the wreath of rural mirth,
  And blast the murm’ring fiend, from chaos sent;
Then, while the house-dog snores upon the hearth,
 I’ll sit, and hail thy sacred name, CONTENT!

EPITAPH.

ON MATILDA.

Sacred to Pity! is upraised this stone,
The humble tribute of a friend unknown;
To grant the beauteous wreck its hallow’d claim,
And add to misery’s scroll another name. 
Poor lost MATILDA! now in silence laid
Within the early grave thy sorrows made. 
Sleep on!—­his heart still holds thy image dear,
Who view’d, through life, thy errors with a tear;
Who ne’er with stoic apathy repress’d
The heartfelt sigh for loveliness distress’d. 
That sigh for thee shall ne’er forget to heave;
’Tis all he now can give, or thou receive. 
When last I saw thee in thy envied bloom,
That promised health and joy for years to come,
Methought the lily nature proudly gave,
Would never wither in th’ untimely grave.