Soon cross'd his path, and short obeisance paid, Stout Gilbert Meldrum and a country maid; A box upon his shoulder held full well Her worldly riches, but the truth to tell She bore the chief herself; that nobler part. That beauteous gem, an uncorrupted heart. And then that native loveliness! that cheek! It bore the very tints her betters seek; At such a sight the libertine would glow, With all the warmth that _he_ can ever know; Would send his thoughts abroad without control, The glimmering moon-shine of his little soul. "Above the reach of justice I shall soar, Her friends may weep, not punish; they're too poor: That very thought the rapture will enhance, Poor, young, and friendless; what a glorious chance! Herbert's Character. A few spare guineas may the conquest make,-- I love the treachery for treachery's sake,-- And when her wounded honour jealous grows, I'll cut away ten thousand oaths and vows, And tell my comrades, with a manly stride, How I, _a girl out-witten and out-lied_." Such was not Herbert--he had never known Love's genuine smiles, nor suffer'd from his frown; And as to that most honourable part Of planting daggers in a parent's heart, A novice quite:--he past his hours away, Free as a bird and buxom as the day; Yet, should a lovely girl by chance arise, Think not that Herbert Brooks would shut his eyes. On thy calm joys with what delight I dream, Thou dear green valley of my native stream! Regret for Devastation by Enclosures. Fancy o'er thee still waves th' enchanting wand, And every nook of thine is fairy land, And ever will be, though the axe should smite In Gain's rude service, and in Pity's spite, Thy clustering alders, and at length invade The last, last poplars, that compose thy shade: Thy stream shall then in native freedom stray, And undermine the willows in its way, These, nearly worthless, may survive this storm, This scythe of desolation call'd "Reform." No army past that way! yet are they fled, The boughs that, when a school-boy, screen'd my head: I hate the murderous axe; estranging more The winding vale from what it was of yore, Than e'en mortality in all its rage, And all the change of faces in an age. The Tale pursued. "Warmth," will they term it, that I speak so free? They strip thy shades,--thy shades so dear to me! In Herbert's days woods cloth'd both hill and dale; But peace, Remembrance! let us tell the tale. His home was in the valley, elms grew round His moated mansion, and the pleasant sound Of woodland birds that loud at day-break sing, With the first cuckoos that proclaim the spring, Flock'd round his dwelling; and his kitchen smoke, That from the towering rookery upward broke, Of joyful import to the poor hard by, Stream'd a glad sign of hospitality; So fancy pictures; but its day is o'er; The moat remains, the dwelling is no more! Its name denotes its melancholy fall, For village children call the spot "Burnt-Hall." [Illustration: a woman kneeling.] The Church.