Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepared,
Spread on the ground, and with a lion shared.
But thus to live-still lost-sequester'd still—
Scarce seem'd his lord's revenge a heavier ill.
Home! native home! O might he but repair!
He must-he will, though death attends him there.
He goes, and doom'd to perish, on the sands
Of the full theatre unpitied stands;
When lo! the self-same lion from his cage
Flies to devour him, famish'd into rage.
He flies, but viewing in his purposed prey
The man, his healer, pauses on his way,
And soften'd 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.

VI.

THE THRACIAN.

THRACIAN parents, at his birth,

Mourn their babe with many a tear,
But with undissembled mirth

Place him breathless on his bier.

Greece and Rome, with equal scorn,

O the savages!' exclaim,

Whether they rejoice or mourn,
Well entitled to the name?'

But the cause of this concern,

And this pleasure would they trace,

Even they might somewhat learn
From the savages of Thrace.

VII.

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 merit most regard?

Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue
A golden edging boast;
And open'd, it displays to view
Twelve pages at the most.

Nor name, nor title, stamp'd 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 form'd 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 grows less and less ;
The last are least of all.

O! 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,
Or 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.

VIII.

AN ENIGMA.

A NEEDLE small, as small can be,
In bulk and use surpasses me,
Nor is my purchase dear;
For little, and almost for naught,
As many of my kind are bought,
As days are in the year.

Yet though but little use we boast,
And are procured at little cost,
The labour is not light;
Nor few artificers it asks,
All skilful in their several tasks,
To fashion us aright.

One fuses metal o'er the fire,
A second draws it into wire,
The shears another plies,

Who clips in lengths the brazen thread
For him, who, chafing every shred,
Gives all au equal size.

A fifth prepares, exact and round,
The knob, with which it must be crown'd;
His follower makes it fast:

And with his mallet and his file,

To shape the point, employs awhile

The seventh and the last.

Now therefore, Edipus! declare,
What creature, wonderful and rare,
A process, that obtains

Its

purpose with so much ado,

At last produces !—tell me true,
And take me for your pains!

IX.

SPARROWS SELF-DOMESTICATED

IN TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.

NONE ever shared the social feast,
Or as an inmate or a guest,
Beneath the celebrated dome

Where once Sir Isaac had his home,
Who saw not (and with some delight
Perhaps he view'd the novel sight,)
How numerous, at the tables there,
The sparrows beg their daily fare.
For there, in every nook and cell,
Where such a family may dwell,
Sure as the vernal season comes,
Their nests they weave in hope of crumbs,
Which kindly given, máy serve with food
Convenient their unfeather'd 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?