RUSTICUS EXPECTAT.

THREE hundred feet of level lawn, Blithe songsters welcoming the dawn, Cedars that, though storm-stricken oft, Green against blue still tower aloft, And wealth of blossom-laden trees, Tall sentinels of damask leas,

With glimpses of Thames' silver sheen High overarching shade between ;- Such scene may cheer a Vicar's home, And banish every wish to roam. But other images than these Will rise and scare the dream of ease.

The slow, sad murmur of the time Must paralyse a happier rhyme.

He marks the strife, he hears the cry Of rustic rude humanity, Half-conscious of the stirring age, Half-puzzling out its mystic page.

The labourers' low wage has shown 'em

Cheap bread is scarce the summum bcmum.

"Parson, he should be rich," they say; "He wears black cloth, he drives his shay ; His Poor-rate prups is summat high, But naught of it do we come by.

Mayhap he's larnM. I don't see What good they lamed scholards be.

They give us soup, and eggs, and rice,

And to digest 'em good advice.

But siller's most as scarce with them As with us country-folk that elem.

Long families they mostly blame, Though many of 'em have the same.

They're always preaching, Save, man, save !'

But who's to do't, and where's the _lave,

With thirteen shillings by the week P

He'd find it harder than his Greek.

We're fined if childer miss their mark To yearn some pence or take a lark : And that smug Master, were he paid To loan the growing lads a trade, To mend their boots or use a rule, Why, then, I'd say, He bean't no fool."

Nor murmur working men alone. For every grange has now its moan. 'Tis hard to keep the fatten'd steer, Because the middleman's so near ; To sow and reap the baffling crops, Whose yearly waning value stops The wisest projects at their source, The genial giver in his course, And what our toilers used to see,- large-handed generosity.

Oh! would some Power arouse the greet, Who make our laws and guide the State, To stem the townward flowing tide And crown with life the country-side, To help the poor of every kind— Parson and farmer, squire and hind— To look on men of low estate, New freedom from this year might date, Another wondrous eighty-eight!

FRANCIS Sr. JOHN THACKERAY.