around their coral bowers, That we might stand upon the beach, and mark The far-off breakers shower their silver spray, And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound Told us that never mariner should reach Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle We might renew the days of infancy, And Life like a long childhood pass away, Without one care. It may be, Margaret, That I shall yet be gathered to my friends, For I am not of those who live estranged Of choice, till at the last they join their race In the family vault. If so, if I should lose, Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine Will end our pilgrimage most pleasantly. If not, if I should never get beyond This Vanity town, there is another world Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret, I gaze at night into the boundless sky, And think that I shall there be born again, The exalted native of some better star; And like the rude American I hope To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth. 

 

Ballads

 

The Cross Roads

 The circumstance related in the following Ballad happened about forty years ago in a village adjacent to Bristol. A person who was present at the funeral, told me the story and the particulars of the interment, as I have versified them. 

 There was an old man breaking stones To mend the turnpike way, He sat him down beside a brook And out his bread and cheese he took, For now it was mid-day. He lent his back against a post, His feet the brook ran by; And there were water-cresses growing, And pleasant was the water’s flowing For he was hot and dry. A soldier with his knapsack on Came travelling o’er the down, The sun was strong and he was tired, And of the old man he enquired How far to Bristol town. Half an hour’s walk for a young man By lanes and fields and stiles. But you the foot-path do not know, And if along the road you go Why then ’tis three good miles. The soldier took his knapsack off For he was hot and dry; And out his bread and cheese he took And he sat down beside the brook To dine in company. Old friend! in faith, the soldier says I envy you almost; My shoulders have been sorely prest And I should like to sit and rest, My back against that post. In such a sweltering day as this A knapsack is the devil! And if on t’other side I sat It would not only spoil our chat But make me seem uncivil. The old man laugh’d 

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