Classic Poem

 No, Cockfield, no! I'll not disdain
 Thy Upton's elm-divided plain;
 Nor scorn the varied views it yields,
 O'er Bromley's creeks and isles of reeds,
 Or Ham's or Plaistow's level meads,
 To Woolwich streets, or Charlton fields:
 Thy hedge-row paths I'll pleasant call,
 And praise the lonely lane that leads
 To that old tower upon the wall.

 'Twas when Misfortune's stroke severe,
 And Melancholy's presence drear,
 Had made my Amwell's groves displease,
 That thine my weary steps receiv'd;
 And much the change my mind reliev'd,
 And much thy kindness gave me case
 For o'er the past as thought would stray,
 That thought thy voice as oft retriev'd,
 To scenes which fair before us lay.

  And there, in happier hours, the walk
 Has frequent pleas'd with friendly talk;
 From theme to theme that wander'd still—
 The long detail of where we' had been,
 And what we' had heard, and what we' had seen;
 And what the poet's tuneful skill,
 And what the painter's graphic art,
 Or antiquarian's searches keen,
 Of calm amusement could impart.

 Then oft did Nature's works engage,
 And oft we search'd Linnæus' page;
 The Scanian Sage, whose wondrous toil
 Had class'd the vegetable race:
 And, curious, oft from place to place
 We rang'd, and sought each different soil,
 Each different plant intent to view,
 And all the marks minute to trace,
 Whence he his nice distinctions drew.

 O moments these, not ill employ'd!
 O moments, better far enjoy'd
 Than those in crowded cities pass'd;
 Where oft to Luxury's gaudy reign
 Trade lends her feeble aid in vain,
 Till Pride, a bankrupt wretch at last,
 Bids Fraud his specious wiles essay,
 Youth's easy confidence to gain,
Or Industry's poor pittance rend away!

RECRUITING

 I HATE that drum's discordant sound,
 Parading round, and round, and round:
 To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
 And lures from cities and from fields,
 To sell their liberty for charms
 Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms;
 And when Ambition's voice commands,
To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands.

 I hate that drum's discordant sound,
 Parading round, and round, and round:
 To me it talks of ravag'd plains,
 And burning towns, and ruin'd swains,
 And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
 And widows' tears, and orphans' moans;
 And all that Misery's hand bestows,
To fill the catalogue of human woes.