INSCRIBED

ON THE BACK OF A LANDSCAPE, DRAWN BY THE

REV. WILLIAM BREE

OF COLESHILL, IN WARWICKSHIRE.

HERE, from the hand of Genius, meets your eye The tangled foliage of a shadowy dell;

Meets it in Nature's truth ;-and see, the brook Thro' yon wild thicket work its way oblique,

Hurrying and dashing thro' the lonely wood!

INSCRIBED

ON THE

BACK OF THE COMPANION LANDSCAPE.

FROM the same vivid pencil, now appear
The social comforts;-Love them, as they rise
On the soft confines of a scene sublime!
Look up the right-hand glade; it surely leads
To the embosom'd village. Snowy white
The raiment see, which cleanliness prepares
Against the Sabbath morn. The good old horse,
Mark him, he drags, with weary neck, the cart
Bearing to yonder mill the bags, well fill'd
With life's best nutriment. The mill-house mark,
Standing on the steep verge of the same brook,
Which late we saw laborious work its way

Over rough stones, and crags, and roots of trees,

Roaming the wood-wild solitude;—but now
Bright it emerges to the haunts of men,
To light, to usefulness.-Observe the mill
Dash the white waters from its clattering wheel!
Hark! thro' the eye we hear it.-Cheering din,
Thou break'st the mountain-silence merrily!

INSCRIBED

ON THE BACK OF A LANDSCAPE, COPIED FROM GLOVER,

BY MISS FLEMING OF LICHFIELD.

It is a golden view, the sunny glow
Sleeps on the water!-Of unnumber'd tints
Gorgeous, this bordering wood, with its proud oak,
That lords it on the bank, have now put on

The burnish'd livery of receding suns,

Ere yet their fires grow pale. Pure, glassy stream,
The forest, skirting to thine utmost edge,
Curtains thee amply; while the far-off hill
Lifts its grey, barren summit, faintly gleam'd.
Look on the herd, how leisurely they pace,
In social line, the narrow, bloomy lane
Descending to the flood! Do you not see
A luxury of quiet in their step,

Congenial to the landscape?-farther on,
In yonder little goats?-how calm they sit
Close to the brink, and with declining head

Muse on their watry image !—Then the boy,
Heedfully following the full-udder'd train

On his staid horse! while up the left-hand glade
Streams the rich setting sun, and on his back
And shoulders warmly plays. No child, I ween,
Of fancy he; for sure his sober eye
Marks little of the beauty he beholds;
Yet we perceive a measureless content
Sit on his sun-burnt cheek.

Dale, to thy charms

Pays or the poet's or the painter's mind

A better homage?-'Tis a right good boy;
He loves the brutes he follows;—they love him,
And we will
say he earns his supper well.