Projecting thatch the woodbine’s branches stop, And turn their blossoms to the casement’s top:-- All need requires is in that Cot contain’d, And much that taste untaught and unrestrain’d Surveys delighted; there she loves to trace, In one gay picture all the Royal Race; Around the walls are Heroes, Lovers, Kings; The print that shews them and the verse that sings. Here the last _Lewis_ on his throne is seen, And there he stands imprison’d and his Queen; To these the Mother takes her Child and shows What grateful Duty to his God he owes; Who gives to him, an happy Home and free, With life’s ennobling comfort, Liberty; When Kings and Queens, dethron’d, insulted, tried, Are all these Comforts of the Poor denied. There is _King Charles_, and all his Golden Rules, Who prov’d Misfortune’s was the best of schools; And there his Son, who, tried by years of pain, Prov’d that misfortunes may be sent in vain. The Magic-mill that grinds the gran’nams young, Close at the side of kind _Godiva_ hung; She, of her favourite place the pride and joy, Of charms at once most lavish and most coy; By wanton act, the purest fame could raise, And give the boldest deed, the chastest praise. There stands the stoutest _Ox_ in England fed; There fights the boldest _Jew_, Whitechapel-bred; And here _Saint Monday_’s worthy votaries live, In all the joys that Ale and Skittles give. Now lo! in Egypt’s coast that hostile Fleet, By nations dreaded and by NELSON beat; And here shall soon another Triumph come, A deed of Glory in a day of Gloom; Distressing glory! grievous boon of fate! The proudest Conquest, at the dearest rate. On shelf of deal beside the cuckoo-clock, Of Cottage-reading rests the chosen stock; Learning we lack, not Books, but have a kind For all our wants, a meat for every mind: The Tale for wonder and the Joke for whim, The half-sung Sermon and the half-groan’d Hymn. No need of classing; each within its place, The feeling finger in the dark can trace; “First from the corner, farthest from the wall,” Such all the rules and they suffice for all. There pious works for Sunday’s use are found, Companions for that Bible newly bound; That Bible, bought by sixpence weekly sav’d, Has choicest prints by famous Hands engrav’d; Has choicest notes by many a famous Head, Such as to doubt, have rustic readers led; Have made them stop to reason _why?_ and _how?_ And where they once agreed, to cavil now. Oh! rather give me Commentators plain, Who with no deep researches vex the brain; Who from the dark and doubtful love to run, And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun; Who simple Truth with nine-fold reasons back, And guard the point, no enemies attack.