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Prostrate, with tears their kindred plant bedew,
And close embrace as to the roots they grew.
The face was all that now remained of thee,
No more a woman, nor yet quite a tree;
Thy branches hung with humid pearls appear,
From every leaf distils a trickling tear,
And straight a voice, while yet a voice remains,
Thus through the trembling boughs in sighs complains :

• If to the wretched any faith be given,
I swear by all th' unpitying powers of heaven,
No wilful crime this heavy vengeance bred;
In mutual innocence our lives we led :
If this be false, let these new greens decay,
Let sounding axes lop my limbs away,
And crackling flames on all my honours prey!
But from my branching arms this infant bear,
Let some kind nurse supply a mother's care :
And to his mother let him oft be led,
Sport in her shades, and in her shades be fed :
Teach him, when first his infant voice shall frame
Imperfect words, and lisp his mother's name,
To hail this tree ; and say, with weeping eyes,
With in this plant my hapless parent lies :
And when in youth he seeks the shady woods,
Oh, let him fly the crystal lakes and floods,
Nor touch the fatal flowers; but, warn’d by me,
Believe a goddess shrined in every tree.
My sire, my sister, and my spouse, farewell!
If in your breasts or love or pity dwell,
Protect your plant, nor let my branches feel
The browsing cattle, or the piercing steel.
Parewell! and since I cannot bend to join
My lips to yours, advance at least to mine,
My son, thy mother's parting kiss receive,
While yet thy mother has a kiss to give.
I can no more ; the creeping rind invades
My closing lips, and hides my head in shades:
Remove your hands ; the bark shall soon suffice
Without their aid to seal those dying eyes.

She ceased at once to speak, and ceased to be;
And all the nymph was lost within the tree)
Yet latent life through her new branches reign'd,
And long the plant a human heat retain d.


From Ovid's Metamorphoses, Book iv. The fair Pomona flourish'd in his reign: Of all the virgins of the sylvan train, None taught the trees a nobler race to bear, Or more improved the vegetable care. To her the shady grove, the flowery field, The streams and fountains, no delights could yield; 'Twas all her joy the ripening fruits to tend, And see the boughs with happy burthens bend. The hook she bore instead of Cynthia's spear, To lop the growth of the luxuriant year, To decent form the lawless shoots to bring, And teach th' obedient branches where to spring. Now the cleft rind inserted graffs receives, And yields an offspring more than nature gives; Now gliding streams the thirsty plants rénew, And feed their fibres with reviving dew.

These cares alone her virgin breast employ, Averse from Venus and the nuptial joy. Her private orchards, wall’d on every side, To lawless sylvans all access denied. How oft the satyrs and the wanton fawns, Who haunt the forests, or frequent the lawns, The god whose ensigns scares the birds of prey, And old Silenus, youthful in decay, Employ'd their wiles and unavailing care, To pass the fences, and surprise the fair ! Like these, Vertumnus owned his faithful flame, Like these, rejected by the scomful dame. To gain her sight a thousand forms he wears; And first a reaper from the field appears, Sweating he walks, while loads of golden grain O’ercharge the shoulders of the seeming swain. Oft o'er his back a crooked scythe is laid, And wreaths of hay his sun-burnt temples shade; Oft in his harden'd hand a goad he bears, Like one who late unyoked the sweating steers. Sometimes his pruning-book corrects the vines, And the loose stragglers to their ranks confines.

Now gathering what the bounteous year allows,
He pulls ripe apples from the bending boughs.
A soldier now, he with his sword appears;
A fisher next, his trembling angle bears.
Each shape he varies, and each art he tries,
On her bright charms to feast his longing eyes.

A female form at last Vertumnus wears,
With all the marks of reverend age appears,
His temples thinly spread with silver hairs:
Propp'd on his staff, and stooping as he goes,
A painted mitre shades his furrow'd brows.
The god, in this decrepit form array'd,
The gardens enter'd, and the fruit survey'd;
And, ' Happy you! he thus address'd the maid,
• Whose charms as far all other nymphs out-shine,
As other gardens are excell'd by thine!'
Then kiss'd the fair (his kisses warmer grow
Than such as women on their sex bestow);
Then, placed beside her on the flowery ground,
Beheld the trees with autumn's bounty crown'd.
An elm was near, to whose embraces led,
The curling vine her swelling clusters spread :
He view'd her twining branches with delight,
And praised the beauty of the pleasing sight.

• Yet this tall elm, but for his vine,' he said, • Had stood neglected, and a barren shade ; And this fair vine, but that her arms surround Her married elm, had crept along the ground. Ah, beauteous maid! let this example move Your mind, averse from all the joys of love : Deign to be loved, and every heart subdue ! What nymph could e'er attract such crowds as you? Not she whose beauty urged the Centaur's arms, Ulysses' queen, nor Helen's fatal charms. E'en now, when silent scorn is all they gain, A thousand court you, though they court in vain; A thousand sylvans, demigods, and gods, That haunt our mountains, and our Alban woods. But if you'll prosper, mark what I advise, Whom age and long experience render wise, And one whose tender care is far above All that these lovers ever felt of love

(Far more than e'er can by yourself be guess'd),
Fix on Vertumnus, and reject the rest.
For his firm faith I dare engage my own ;
Scarce to himself, himself is better known.
To distant lands Vertumnus never roves;
Like you, contented with his native groves ;
Not at first sight, like most, admires the fair;
For you he lives; and you alone shall share
His last affection, as his early care.
Besides, he's lovely far above the rest,
With youth immortal, and with beauty bless'd.
And, that he varies every shape with ease, ,
And tries all forms that may Pomona please.
But what should most excite a mutual flame,
Your rural cares and pleasures are the same.
To him your orchard's early fruit are due
(A pleasing offering, when 'tis made by you),
He values these ; but yet, alas! complains,
That still the best and dearest gift remains.
Not the fair fruit that on yon branches glows
With that ripe red th' autumnal sun bestows;
Nor tasteful herbs, that in these gardens rise,
Which the kind soil with milky sap supplies ;
You, only you, can move the god's desire :
Oh, crown so constant and so pure a fire!
Let soft compassion touch your gentle mind;
Think, 'tis Vertumnus begs you to be kind :
So may no frost, when early buds appear,
Destroy the promise of the youthful year;
Nor winds, when first your florid orchard blows,
Shake the light blossoms from their blasted boughs!

This when the various god had urged in vain,
He straight assumed his native form again ;
Such, and so bright an aspect now he bears,
As when through clouds th' emerging sun appears,
And, thence exerting his refulgent ray,
Dispels the darkness, and reveals the day.
Force he prepared, but check'd the rash design;
For when, appearing in a form divine,
The nymph surveys him, and beholds the grace
Of charming features, and a youthful face;
In her soft breast consenting passions move,
And the warm maid confess'd a mutual love.


Done by the Author in his Youth.

WOMEN ben full of ragerie,
Yet swinken pat sans secresie.
Thilke moral shall ye understond,
From schoole-boy's tale of fayre Irelond:
Which to the fennes hath him betake,
To filch the gray ducke fro the lake.
Right then, there paşsen by the way
His aunt, and eke her daughters tway.
Dacke in his trowsers hath he hent,
Not to be spied of ladies gent.
* But ho! our nephew,' crieth one,
• Hol quoth another,' cozen John ;'
And stoppen, and lough, and callen out, -
This silly clerke full low doth lout:
They asken that, and talken this,
• Lo! here is coz, and here is miss.'
But, as he glozeth with speeches soote,
The ducke sore tickleth his erse roote :
Fore-piece and buttons all to-brest,
Forth thrust a white neck, and red crest.
•Te-he,' cried ladies ; clerke nought spake :
Miss stared, and gray ducke cryeth, Quaake.'

O moder, moder,' quoth the daughter,
• Be thilke same thing maids longen a'ter?
Bette is to pine on coals and chalke,
Then trust on mon, whose yerde can talke.?


THE ALLEY. In every town where Thamis rolls his tyde, A narrow pass there is with houses low; Where, ever and anon, the stream is eyed, And many a boat, soft sliding to and fro. There oft are heard the notes of infant wve, The short thick sob, loud scream, and shriller squall: How can ye, mothers, vex your children so ? Some play, some eat, some cack against the wall, And as they crouchen low, for bread and butter call.

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