THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY.

NO FABLE.

The noon was, shady, and soft airs

Swept Ouse's silent tide,
When 'scaped from literary cares,

I wandered on his side.

My spaniel, prettiest of his race,

And high in pedigree, (Two nymphs * adorned with every grace

That spaniel found for me)

Now wantoned lost in flags and reeds,

Now starting into sight
Pursued the swallow o'er the meads

With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse displayed

His lilies newly blown;
Their beauties I intent surveyed,

And one I wished my own.

With cane extended far I sought

To steer it close to land; . But still the prize, though nearly caught,

Escaped my eager hand.

Beau marked my unsuccessful pains

With fixt considerate face,
And puzzling set his puppy brains

To comprehend the case. ¿

But with a chirrup clear and strong,

Dispersing all his dream,
I thence withdrew, and followed long

The windings of the stream.

My ramble ended, I returned.

Beau trotting far before
The floating wreath again discerned,

And plunging left the shore.

I saw him with that lily cropped

Impatient swim to meet My quick approach, and soon he dropped

The treasure at my feet.

Charmed with the sight, the world, I cried,

Shall hear of this thy deed: My dog shall mortify the pride

Of man's superior breed :

But chief myself I will enjoin,

Awake at duty's call,
To show a love as prompt as thine

To him who gives me all.

THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND

SENSITIVE PLANT.

An Oyster, cast upon the shore,
Was heard, though never heard before,
Complaining in a speech well worded,
And worthy thus to be recorded

Ah, hapless wretch! condemned to dwell
For ever in my'native shell;
Ordained to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease;
But tossed and buffeted about,
Now in the water and now out.
"Twere better to be born a stone,
Of ruder shape, and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And sensibilities so fine;
I envy that unfeeling shrub,
Fast rooted against every rub.

The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the sneer with scorn enough,
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
And with asperity replied:
(When, cry the botanists, and stare,
Did plants call'd sensitive grow there!
No matter when-a poet's muse is . .
To make them grow just where she chooses :)

You shapeless nothing in a dish,
You that are but almost a fish,
I scorn your coarse insinuation,
And have most plentiful occasion
To wish myself the rock I view,
Or such another dolt as you :
For many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unlettered spark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he;
And when 1 bend, retire, and shrink,
Says-Well, 'tis more than one would think !
Thus life is spent (oh fie upon't!)
In being touched, and crying-Don't!