A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long
Had cheered 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
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

My drink the morning dew;
I perched at will on every spray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,
My strains for ever new.

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


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 demùm, exactis non infeliciter annis,
Sortiri tacitum lapidem, aut sub cespite condi.


Who studiously make peace their aim;
Peace both the duty and the prize
Of him that creeps and him that flies.

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TIME was when I was free as air,
The thistle's downy seed my fare,

But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,
And form genteel were all in vain,
And of a transient date; [death,
For, caught and caged, and starved to
In dying sighs my little breath
Soon passed 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 you had shown me less,
Had been your prisoner still.

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THE Pineapples, in triple row,
Were basking hot, and all in blow;
A Bee of most discerning taste
Perceived the fragrance as he passed;
On eager wing the spoiler came,
And searched 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;
Folly the spring of his pursuit,
And disappointment all the fruit.
While Cynthio ogles, as she passes,
The nymph between two chariot glasses,

HORACE, 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
Imbittering all his state.


The tallest pines feel most the power
Of wintry blasts; 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.

She is the Pineapple, and he
The silly unsuccessful Bee.
The maid who views with pensive air
The showglass fraught with glittering


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 pineapples in frames;
With hopeless wish one looks and

One breaks the glass, and cuts his fingers;

But they whom Truth and Wisdom lead, Can gather honey from a weed.

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AND is this all? Can Reason do no more

Than bid me shun the deep and dread the shore?
Sweet moralist! afloat on life's rough sea,
The Christian has an art unknown to thee !

He holds no parley with unmanly fears;
Where Duty bids, he confidently steers,
Faces a thousand dangers at her call,
And, trusting in his God, surmounts them all.



BENEATH the hedge or near the stream,
A worm is known to stray,
That shows by night a lucid beam,
Which disappears by day.

Disputes have been, and still prevail,
From whence his rays proceed;
Some give that honour to his tail,
And others to his head.

But this is sure-t
-the hand of might
That kindles up the skies,
Gives him a modicum of light
Proportioned to his size.
Perhaps indulgent Nature meant,
By such a lamp bestowed,
To bid the traveller, as he went,
Be careful where he trod;

Nor crush a worm, whose useful light
Might serve, however small,
To show a stumbling stone by night,
And save him from a fall.
What'er she meant, this truth divine
Is legible and plain,

'Tis power Almighty bids him shine,
Nor bids him shine in vain.

Ye proud and wealthy! let this theme

Teach humbler thoughts to you, Since such a reptile has its gem, And boasts its splendour too.


THERE is a bird who by his coat,
And by the hoarseness of his note,

Might be supposed a crow:
A great frequenter of the church,
Where bishop-like he finds a perch,
And dormitory too.

Above the steeple shines a plate,
That turns and turns, to indicate

From what point blows the weather;

Look up your brains begin to swim,
'Tis in the clouds-that pleases him,
He chooses it the rather.
Fond of the speculative height,
Thither he wings his airy flight,

And thence securely sees
The bustle and the raree-show
That occupy mankind below,
Secure and at his ease.

You think, no doubt, he sits and muses
On future broken bones and bruises,

If he should chance to fall.
No; not a single thought like that
Employs his philosophic pate,
Or troubles it at all.

He sees that this great roundabout,
The world, with all its motley rout,

Church, army, physic, law,
Its customs, and its businesses,
Are no concern at all of his,

And says what says he?" Caw."
Thrice happy bird! I too have seen
Much of the vanities of men ;

And sick of having seen 'em, Would cheerfully these limbs resign For such a pair of wings as thine, And such a head between 'em.


LITTLE inmate, full of mirth,
Chirping on my kitchen hearth,
Wheresoe'er be thine abode,
Always harbinger of good,
Pay me for thy warm retreat
With a song more soft and sweet;
In return thou shalt receive
Such a strain as I can give.

Thus thy praise shall be expressed,
Inoffensive, welcome guest!
While the rat is on the scout,
And the mouse with curious snout,

With what vermin else infest Every dish, and spoil the best ; Frisking thus before the fire, Thou hast all thine heart's desire.

Though in voice and shape they be
Formed as if akin to thee,
Thou surpassest, happier far,
Happiest grasshoppers that are ;
Theirs is but a summer's song,
Thine endures the winter long,
Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear,
Melody throughout the year.
Neither night, nor dawn of day,
Puts a period to thy play;
Sing then-and extend thy span
Far beyond the date of man;
Wretched man, whose years are spent
In repining discontent,
Lives not, aged though he be,
Half a span compared with thee.

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He scolds and gives the lie. And now he sings, and now is sick, 'Here Sally, Susan, come, come quick, Poor Poll is like to die!"


Belinda and her bird! 'tis rare
To meet with such a well-matched pair,
The language and the tone,
Each character in every part
Sustained with so much grace and art,
And both in unison.

When children first begin to spell,
And stammer out a syllable,

We think them tedious creatures;
But difficulties soon abate,
When birds are to be taught to prate,
And women are the teachers.

For all that pleased in wood or lawn, While Peace possessed these silent bowers,

Her animating smile withdrawn,

Has lost its beauties and its powers. The saint or moralist should tread

This moss-grown alley, musing, slow; They seek like me the secret shade,

But not, like me, to nourish woe! Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste

Alike admonish not to roam; These tell me of enjoyments past,

And those of sorrows yet to come.


WHAT Nature, alas! has denied

To the delicate growth of our isle, Art has in a measure supplied,

And winter is decked with a smile. See, Mary, what beauties I bring

From the shelter of that sunny shed, Where the flowers have the charms of the spring,

Though abroad they are frozen and dead.

"Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets,

Where Flora is still in her prime, A fortress to which she retreats

From the cruel assaults of the clime.



THE lady thus addressed her spouse"What a mere dungeon is this house! By no means large enough, and was it, Yet this dull room and that dark closet, Those hangings with their worn-out graces,

Long beards, long noses, and pale faces,

Are such an antiquated scene,
They overwhelm me with the spleen.'

Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark,
Makes answer quite beside the mark :
"No doubt, my dear, I bade him come,
Engaged myself to be at home,
And shall expect him at the door,
Precisely when the clock strikes four."
You are so deaf," the lady cried,
(And raised her voice, and frowned be-



"You are so sadly deaf, my dear, What shall I do to make you hear?" "Dismiss poor Harry!" he replies,

Some people are more nice than wise, For one slight trespass all this stir? What if he did ride whip and spur? 'Twas but a mile-your favourite horse Will never look one hair the worse."



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'Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing!". Child! I am rather hard of hearing." "Yes, truly; one must scream and bawl: I tell you you can't hear at all!" Then, with a voice exceeding low, o matter if you hear or no."

While earth wears a mantle of snow, These pinks are as fresh and as gay

As the fairest and sweetest that blow On the beautiful bosom of May.

See how they have safely survived

The frowns of a sky so severe; Such Mary's true love, that has lived Through many a turbulent year. The charms of the late-blowing rose

Seem graced with a livelier hue, And the winter of sorrow best shows The truth of a friend such as you.

Alas! and is domestic strife,
That sorest ill of human life,
A plague so little to be feared,
As to be wantonly incurred,
To gratify a fretful passion,
On every trivial provocation?
The kindest and the happiest pair
Will find occasion to forbear;
And something, every day they live,
To pity and, perhaps, forgive.
But if infirmities, that fall
In common to the lot of all,
A blemish, or a sense impaired,
Are crimes so little to be spared,
Then farewell all that must create
The comfort of the wedded state;
Instead of harmony, 'tis jar,
And tumult and intestine war.

The love that cheers life's latest

Proof against sickness and old age,
Preserved by virtue from declension,
Becomes not weary of attention;
But lives when that exterior grace
Which first inspired the flame decays.
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind,
To faults compassionate or blind,
And will with sympathy endure
Those evils it would gladly cure;
But angry, coarse, and harsh expression
Shows love to be a mere profession;
Proves that the heart is none of his,
Or soon expels him if it is.

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