Yet once again, amidst her fright,
She tried what sight could do;
When, through the cheating glooms of night,
A MONSTER! stood in view.
Regardless of whate'er she felt,
It followed down the plain;
She owned her sins, and down she knelt,
And said her prayers again.
Then on she sped, and hope grew strong,
The white park-gate in view;
Which pushing hard, so long it swung,
That ghost and all passed through!
Loud fell the gate against the post,
Her heart-strings like to crack;
For much she feared the grisly ghost
Would leap upon her back.
Still on-pit-pat-the goblin went,
As it had done before :
Her strength and resolution spent,
She fainted at the door.
Out came her husband, much surprised,
Out came her daughter dear;
Good-natured souls! all unadvised
Of what they had to fear.
The candle's gleam pierced through the night,
Some short space o'er the green;
And there the little trotting sprite
Distinctly might be seen.
An ass's foal had lost its dam
Within the spacious park;
And, simple as a playful lamb,
Had followed in the dark.
No goblin he; no imp of sin;
No crimes had ever known ;-
They took the shaggy stranger in,
And reared him as their own.1
His little hoofs would rattle round
Upon the cottage floor;
The matron learned to love the sound
That frightened her before.
A favourite the ghost became
And 'twas his fate to thrive ;
And long he lived, and spread his fame,
And kept the joke alive;
For many a laugh went through the vale,
And some conviction too—
Each thought some other goblin tale
Perhaps was just as true.
THE FAITHFUL FRIEND.
THE greenhouse is my summer seat;
My shrubs, displaced from that retreat,
Enjoyed the open air;
Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song
Had been their mutual solace long,
Lived happy prisoners there.
1 It does not distinctly appear that they had any right to do this.
They sang as blithe as finches sing
That flutter loose on golden wing,
And frolic where they list;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
But that delight they never knew,
And therefore never missed.
But nature works in every breast,
With force not easily supprest;
And Dick felt some desires,
Which, after many an effort vain,
Instructed him at length to gain
A pass between the wires.
The open windows seemed to invite
The freeman to a farewell flight;
But Tom was still confined;
And Dick, although his way was clear,
Was much too generous and sincere
To leave his friend behind.
So settling on his cage, by play,
And chirp, and kiss, he seemed to say,
"You must not live alone,"-
Nor would he quit that chosen stand,
Till I with slow and cautious hand
Returned him to his own.
O ye, who never taste the joys
Of friendship, satisfied with noise,
Fandango, ball, and rout!
Blush, when I tell you how a bird
A prison with a friend preferred,
To liberty without.
' List—wish, please.
2 Fandango-a Spanish dance.
SONG OF THE BEES.
WE watch for the light of the morn to break,
And colour the eastern sky
With its blended hues of saffron and lake;
Then say to each other, "Awake! awake!
For our winter's honey is all to make,
And our bread for a long supply."
And off we hie to the hill and dell,
To the field, to the meadow and bower;
We love in the columbine's horn to dwell,
To dip in the lily with snow-white bell,
To search for the balm in its fragrant cell,
The mint and the rosemary flower.
We seek the bloom of the eglantine,1
Of the painted thistle and brier;
And follow the steps of the wandering vine,
Whether it trail on the earth supine,2
Or round the aspiring tree-top twine,
And aim at a state still higher.
While each, on the good of her sister bent,
Is busy, and cares for all,
We hope for an evening of heart's content
In the winter of life, without lament
That summer is gone, or its hours misspent,
And the harvest is past recall.
Eglantine-properly the sweet-brier; here the honey
suckle is probably intended.
2 Supine-lying along on the ground.
FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT BOURNE.
To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there, house and all
Within that house secure he hides,
When danger imminent betides
Of storm, or other harm besides
Give but his horns the slightest touch,
His self-collecting power is such,
He shrinks into his house with much
Where'er he dwells he dwells alone,
Except himself, has chattels 1 none,
Well satisfied to be his own
Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads,
Nor partner of his banquet needs,
And if he meets one, only feeds
Who seeks him must be worse than blind, (He and his house are so combined)
If finding it, he fails to find
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