'Twas then, too, when our prospects grew so fair, And Sabbath bells announc'd the morning pray'r; Beneath that vast gigantic dome we bow'd, That lifts its flaming cross above the cloud; Had gain'd the centre of the checquer'd floor;-- That instant, with reverberating roar Burst forth the pealing organ----mute we stood;-- The strong sensation boiling through my blood, Rose in a storm of joy, allied to pain, I wept, and worshipp'd GOD, and wept again; And felt, amidst the fervor of my praise, The sweet assurances of better days. In that gay season, honest friend of mine, I mark'd the brilliant sun upon thee shine; Imagination took her flights so free, _Home_ was delicious with my book and thee, The purchas'd nosegay, or brown ears of corn, Were thy gay plumes upon a summer's morn, Awakening memory, that disdains control, They spoke the darling language of my soul: They whisper'd tales of joy, of peace, of truth, And conjur'd back the sunshine of my youth: Fancy presided at the joyful birth, I pour'd the torrent of my feelings forth; Conscious of _truth_ in Nature's humble track, And wrote "The Farmer's Boy" upon thy back! Enough, old friend:--thou'rt mine; and shalt partake, While I have pen to write, or tongue to speak, Whatever fortune deals me.--Part with thee! No, not till death shall set my spirit free; For know, should plenty crown my life's decline, A most important duty may be thine: Then, guard me from Temptation's base control, From apathy and littleness of soul The sight of thy old frame, so rough, so rode, Shall twitch the sleeve of nodding Gratitude; Shall teach me but to venerate the more Honest Oak Tables and their guests--the poor: Teach me unjust distinctions to deride, And falsehoods gender'd in the brain of Pride; Shall give to Fancy still the cheerful hour, To Intellect, its freedom and its power; To Hospitality's enchanting ring A charm, which nothing but thyself can bring. The man who would not look with honest pride On the tight bark that stemm'd the roaring tide, And bore him, when he bow'd the trembling knee, Home, through the mighty perils of the sea, I love him not.--He ne'er shall be my guest; Nor sip my cup, nor witness how I'm blest; Nor lean, to bring my honest friend to shame, A sacrilegious elbow on thy frame; But thou through life a monitor shalt prove, Sacred to Truth, to Poetry, and Love. Dec. 1803. THE HORKEY. A Provincial Ballad. ADVERTISEMENT. In the descriptive ballad which follows, it will be evident that I have endeavoured to preserve the style of a gossip, and to transmit the memorial of a custom, the extent or antiquity of which I am not acquainted with, and pretend not to enquire.