Began half to wish for a neighbour at hand

To loosen the stone, which was fast in the sand; Pulled harder then dozed, as I found 'twas no

use;

Awoke the next summer, and lo! it was loose.

Crawled forth from the stone when completely awake;
Crept into a corner and grinned at a snake.
Retreated, and found that I needed repose;
Curled up my damp limbs and prepared for a doze:
Fell sounder to sleep than was usual before,
And did not awake for a century or more;
But had a sweet dream, as I rather believe:—
Methought it was light, and a fine summer's eve;
And I in some garden deliciously fed

In the pleasant moist shade of a strawberry bed.
There fine speckled creatures claimed kindred with

me,

And others that hopped, most enchanting to see.
Here long I regaled with emotion extreme ;—
Awoke-disconcerted to find it a dream;
Grew pensive-discovered that life is a load;
Began to get weary of being a toad;

Was fretful at first, and then shed a few tears."-
Here ends the account of the first thousand years.

MORAL.

It seems that life is all a void,
On selfish thoughts alone employed:
That length of days is not a good,
Unless their use be understood;
While if good deeds one year engage,
That may be longer than an age :

M

But if a year in trifles go,
Perhaps you'd spend a thousand so.
Time cannot stay to make us wise—
We must improve it as it flies.

Jane Taylor.

INVITATION TO BIRDS.

YE gentle warblers! hither fly,
And shun the noontide heat;
My shrubs a cooling shade supply,
My groves a safe retreat.

Here freely hop from spray to spray,

And weave the mossy nest;
Here rove and sing the live-long day,
At night here sweetly rest.

Amid this cool transparent rill,

That trickles down the glade,

Here bathe your plumes, here drink your fill,
And revel in the shade.

No school-boy rude, to mischief prone,
Here shows his ruddy face;
Or twangs his bow, or hurls a stone
In this sequestered place.

Hither the vocal thrush repairs;
Secure the linnet sings;

The goldfinch dreads no slimy snares
To clog her painted wings.

Sweet nightingale ! oh, quit thy haunt,
Yon distant woods among,

And round my friendly grotto chant

Thy sadly-pleasing song.

Let not the harmless redbreast fear,
Domestic bird, to come
And seek a safe asylum here,

With one that loves his home.

My trees for you, ye artless tribe,

Shall store of fruit

preserve;

Oh! let me thus your friendship bribe-
Come feed without reserve.

For you these cherries I protect,

To you these plums belong;

have pecked,

Graves.

But sweeter far your song.

BETH-GELERT;"

OR, THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND.

THE spearman heard the bugle sound,
And gaily smiled the morn,

And many a brach,2 and many a hound,
Attend Llewellyn's horn.

'The name of a village in North Wales. The circumstances narrated in this poem occurred in the reign of King John of England, when Llewellyn the Great was the independent Prince of North Wales.

2 Brach-a female hound.

And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer;
"Come, Gelert, why art thou the last
Llewellyn's horn to hear?

"Where does my faithful Gelert roam?
The flower of all his race;
So true, so brave; a lamb at home,
A lion in the chace."

"Twas only at Llewellyn's board
The faithful Gelert fed;

He watched, he served, he cheered his lord,
And sentineled1 his bed.

In sooth he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John: 2
But now no Gelert could be found,
And all the chace rode on.

And now, as over rocks and dells
The huntsmen's cheerings rise,
All Snowdon's craggy chaos3 yells
With many mingled cries.

That day Llewellyn little loved
The chace of hart or hare,
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied;
When near the portal seat,4

1 Sentineled-watched as a sentinel.

2 Royal John-King John of England.

3

Craggy chaos-confused mass of craggy rocks which

formed the mountain.

• Portal seat-seat at the door of his castle.

His truant Gelert he espied,

Bounding his lord to greet.

But when he gained his castle door
Aghast the chieftain stood;

The hound was smeared with drops of gore,
His lips and fangs ran blood!

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,
Unused such looks to meet;
His favourite checked his joyful guise,2
And crouched and licked his feet.

Onward in haste Llewellyn past,
And on went Gelert too;
And still where'er his eyes he cast

Fresh blood-drops shocked his view!

O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
The blood-stained covert3 rent;
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.4

He called his child; no voice replied-
He searched with terror wild;
Blood! blood he found on every side,
But nowhere found his child!

"Hell-hound! by thee my child's devoured!" The frantic father cried;

And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side.

1 Fangs-long tusks or teeth.

2 Guise-manner, appearance.

3 Covert for coverlet, the outermost of the bed-clothes.

Besprent-sprinkled.