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He roared approaching; but the savage din To plaintive murmurs changed,—arrived within, And with expressive looks, his lifted paw Presenting, aid implored from whom he saw. 10 The fugitive, through terror at a stand, Dared not awhile afford his trembling hand;But bolder grown, at length inherent found A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound. The cure was wrought; he wiped the sanious blood, And firm and free from pain the lion stood. Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day Regales his inmate with the parted prey;Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepared, Spread on the ground, and with a lion shared. 20 But thus to live—still lost—sequestered still— Scarce seemed his lord's revenge a heavier ill. Home! native home! oh might he but repair!He must, he will, though death attends him there. He goes, and doomed to perish, on the sands Of the full theatre unpitied stands;When lo! the self-same lion from his cage Flies to devour him, famished into rage. He flies, but viewing in his purposed prey The man, his healer, pauses on his way, 30 And, softened by remembrance into sweet And kind composure, crouches at his feet.

Mute with astonishment the assembly gaze:
But why, ye Romans? Whence your mute amaze?
All this is natural: Nature bade him rend
An enemy; she bids him spare a friend.

A MANUAL,

MORE ANCIENT THAN THE ART OF PRINTING, AND NOT TO BE
FOUND IN ANY CATALOGUE.

There is a book, which we may call

(Its excellence is such) Alone a library, though small;

The ladies thumb it much. Words none, things numerous, it contains;

And, things with words compared,
Who needs be told, that has his brains,
Which merits most regard?

Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue A golden edging boast;
And, opened, it displays to view

Twelve pages at the most.

Nor name, nor title, stamped behind,

Adorns its outer part;
But all within 'tis richly lined,

A magazine of art.

The whitest hands that secret hoard

Oft visit; and the fair
Preserve it in their bosoms stored,

As with a miser's care.

Thence implements of every size,
And formed for various use, (They need but to consult their eyes,)
They readily produce.

The largest and the longest kind

Possess the foremost page,
A sort most needed by the blind,

Or nearly such from age.

The full-charged leaf, which next ensues,

Presents in bright array
The smaller sort, which matrons use,
Not quite so blind as they.

The third, the fourth, the fifth supply

What their occasions ask, Who with a more discerning eye

Perform a nicer task.

But still with regular decrease

From size to size they fall,
In every leaf grow less and less;

The last are least of all.

Oh ! what a fund of genius, pent In narrow space, is here!This volume's method and intent How luminous and clear!

It leaves no reader at a loss

(Jr posed, whoever reads:No commentator's tedious gloss, Nor even index needs.

Search Bodley's many thousands o'er!

No book is treasured there, Nor yet in Granta's numerous store,

That may with this compare.

No !—rival none in either host

Of this was ever seen,
Or, that contents could justly boast,

So brilliant and so keen.

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Which kindly given, may serve with food
Convenient their unfeathered brood;
And oft as with its summons clear
The warning bell salutes their ear,
Sagacious listeners to the sound,
They flock from all the fields around,
To reach the hospitable hall,
None more attentive to the call.
Arrived, the pensionary band,

Hopping and chirping, close at hand,
Solicit what they soon receive,
The sprinkled, plenteous donative.
Thus is a multitude, though large,
Supported at a trivial charge;
A single doit would overpay
The expenditure of every day,
And who can grudge so small a grace
To suppliants, natives of the place?

FAMILIARITY DANGEROUS.

As in her ancient mistress' lap

The youthful Tabby lay,
They gave each other many a tap,

Alike disposed to play.

But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm,

And with protruded claws
Ploughs all the length of Lydia's arm,

Mere wantonness the cause.

At once, resentful of the deed,
She shakes her to the ground,

With many a threat that she shall bleed
With still a deeper wound.

But, Lydia, bid thy fury rest;

It was a venial stroke:
For she that will with kittens jest

Should bear a kitten's joke.

INVITATION TO THE REDBREAST.

Sweet bird, whom the Winter constrains—

And seldom another it can—
To seek a retreat while he reigns,

In the well-sheltered dwellings of man,
Who never can seem to intrude,

Though in all places equally free,
Come! oft as the season is rude,

Thou art sure to be welcome to me.

At sight of the first feeble ray

That pierces the clouds of the east,
To inveigle thee every day

My windows shall show thee a feast;
For, taught by experience, I know

Thee mindful of benefit long,
And that, thankful for all I bestow,

Thou wilt pay me with many a song.

Then soon as the swell of the buds

Bespeaks the renewal of Spring,
Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods,

Or where it shall please thee to sing:
And shouldst thou, compelled by a frost,

Come again to my window or door,
Doubt not an affectionate host,

Only pay, as thou payedst me before.

Thus music must needs be confest

To flow from a fountain above;
Else how should it work in the breast

Unchangeable friendship and love?
And who on the globe can be found,

Save your generation and ours,
That can be delighted by sound,

Or boasts any musical powers?

STRADA'S NIGHTINGALE.

TllK shepherd touched his reed ; sweet Philomel
Essayed, and oft essayed to catch the strain,

And treasuring, as on her ear they fell,
The numbers, echoed note for note again.

The peevish youth, who ne'er had found before
A rival of his skill, indignant heard,

And soon (for various was his tuneful store)
In loftier tones defied the simple bird.

She dared the task, and rising, as he rose,
With all the force that passion gives inspired,

Returned the sounds awhile, but in the close,
Exhausted fell, and at his feet expired.

Thus strength, not skill, prevailed. O fatal strife,
By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun!

And oh, sad victory, which cost thy life,
And he may wish that he had never won.

ODE ON THE DEATH OF A LADY

WHO LIVED ONE HUNDRED YEARS, AND DIED ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1728.

Ancient dame, how wide and vast,
To a race like ours, appears,

Rounded to an orb at last,
All thy multitude of years!

We, the herd of human kind,
Frailer and of feebler powers;

We, to narrow bounds confined,
Soon exhaust the sum of ours.

Death's delicious banquet, we
Perish even from the womb,

Swifter than a shadow flee,

Nourished but to feed the tomb.

Seeds of merciless disease

Lurk in all that we enjoy;
Some that waste us by degrees,

Some that suddenly destroy.

And if life o'erleap the bourn
Common to the sons of men,

What remains, but that we mourn,
Dream, and dote, and drivel then?

Fast as moons can wax and wane,
Sorrow comes; and while we groan,

Pant with anguish and complain,
Half our years are fled and gone.

If a few (to few 'tis given), Lingering on this earthly stage,

Creep and halt with steps uneven
To the period of an age,

Wherefore live they, but to see
Cunning, arrogance, and force, Sights lamented much by thee,
Holding their accustomed course?

Oft was seen, in ages past,

All that we with wonder view;

Often shall be to the last;
Earth produces nothing new.

Thee we gratulate; content

Should propitious Heaven design

Life for us, as calmly spent, Though but half the length of thine.

THE CAUSE WON.

Two neighbours furiously dispute;

A field the subject of the suit.

Trivial the spot, yet such the rage

With which the combatants engage,

'Twere hard to tell, who covets most

The prize—at whatsoever cost.

The pleadings swell. Words still suffice;

No single word but has its price:

No term but yields some fair pretence

For novel and increased expense.

Defendant thus becomes a name Which he that bore it may disclaim; Since both, in one description blended, Are plaintiffs—when the suit is ended.

THE SILKWORM,

The beams of April, ere it goes,
A worm, scarce visible, disclose;
All winter long content to dwell
The tenant of his native shell.
The same prolific season gives
The sustenance by which he lives,
The mulberry-leaf, a simple store,
That serves him—till he needs no more!
For, his dimensions once complete,
Thenceforth none ever sees him eat;
Though, till his growing time be past,
Scarce ever is he seen to fast.
That hour arrived, his work begins;
He spins and weaves, and weaves and
spins;Till circle upon circle wound

Careless around him and around,
Conceals him with a veil, though slight,
Impervious to the keenest sight.
Thus self-inclosed, as in a cask,
At length he finishes his task:
And, though a worm when he was lost,
Or caterpillar at the most,
When next we see him, wings he wears,
And in papilio-pomp appears;
Becomes oviparous; supplies
With future worms and future flies
The next ensuing year—and dies!
Well were it for the world, if all
Who creep about this earthly ball,
Though shorter-lived than most he be,
Were useful in their kind as he.

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