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THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM.
A NIGHTINGALE that all day long
Had cheer'd the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When looking eagerly around,
He spied, far off upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the Glow-worm by his spark;
So stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop ;
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus right eloquent.—
"Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,
"As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song,
For 'twas the self-same power divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine,
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night."
The songster heard his short oration,
And warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.
Hence jarring sectaries may learn,
Their real interest to discern:

That brother should not war with brother,
And worry and devour each other,

But sing and shine by sweet consent,
Till life's poor transient night is spent,
Respecting in each other's case

The gifts of nature and of grace.

Those Christians best deserve the name,
Who studiously make peace their aim;
Peace, both the duty and the prize
Of him that creeps and him that flies.

VOTUM.

O MATUTINI rores, auræque salubres,
O nemora, et lætæ rivis felicibus herbæ,
Graminei colles, et amœnæ in vallibus umbræ !
Fata modò dederint quas olim in rure paterno
Delicias, procul arte, procul formidine novi,

Quam vellem ignotus, quod mens mea semper avebat,
Ante larem proprium placidam expectare senectam,
Tum demum exatis non infeliciter annis,
Sortiri tacitum lapidem, aut sub cespite condi.

ON A GOLDFINCH

STARVED TO DEATH IN HIS CAGE.

TIME was when I was free as air,
The thistle's downy seed my fare,
My drink the morning dew;
I perch'd at will on every spray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,
My strains for ever new.

But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,
And form genteel were all in vain

And of a transient date,

For caught and caged and starved to death, In dying sighs my little breath

Soon pass'd the wiry grate.

Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes,

And thanks for this effectual close,

And cure of every ill!

More cruelty could none express,

And I, if had shown me less, you

Had been your prisoner still.

THE PINE APPLE AND THE BEE.

THE Pine Apples in triple row
Were basking hot and all in blow,
A Bee of most discerning taste
Perceived the fragrance as he pass'd;
On eager wing the spoiler came,
And search'd for crannies in the frame,
Urged his attempt on every side,
To every pane his trunk applied,
But still in vain, the frame was tight
And only pervious to the light.
Thus having wasted half the day,
He trimmed his flight another way.
Methinks, I said, in thee I find
The sin and madness of mankind;
To joys forbidden man aspires,
Consumes his soul with vain desires;

1

Folly the spring of his pursuit,
And disappointment all the fruit.
While Cynthio ogles as she passes
The nymph between two chariot glasses,
She is the Pine Apple, and he

The silly unsuccessful Bee.

The maid who views with pensive air

The show-glass fraught with glittering ware,
Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets,
But sighs at thought of empty pockets,
Like thine her appetite is keen,
But ah the cruel glass between!

Our dear delights are often such,
Exposed to view but not to touch;
The sight our foolish heart inflames,
We long for pine apples in frames;
With hopeless wish one looks and lingers,
One breaks the glass and cuts his fingers,
But they whom truth and wisdom lead,
Can gather honey from a weed.

HORACE.

BOOK II. ODE X.

RECEIVE, dear friend, the truths I teach,

So shalt thou live beyond the reach

Of adverse fortune's power;
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep
Along the treacherous shore.

He that holds fast the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between

The little and the great,

Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,

Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,
Imbittering all his state.

The tallest pines feel most the power
Of wintry blast, the loftiest tower

Comes heaviest to the ground;

The bolts that spare the mountain's side,
His cloud-capt eminence divide

And spread the ruin round.

The well-inform'd philosopher
Rejoices with an wholesome fear,
And hopes in spite of pain;
If winter bellow from the north,

Soon the sweet spring comes dancing forth,
And nature laughs again.

What if thine heaven be overcast,
The dark appearance will not last,
Expect a brighter sky;

The God that strings the silver bow,
Awakes sometimes the Muses too,
And lays his arrows by.

If hinderances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,

And let thy strength be seen;
But oh! if Fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,
Take half thy canvass in!

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