Page images
PDF

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 implement of ev'ry size,
And form'd the various use,

(They need but to consult their eyes)
They rapidly 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 ev'ry 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
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 num'rous store,
That may with this compare.

No 1—Rival none in either host
Of this was ever seen,

Or that contents could justly boast,
So brilliant and so keen.

FAMILIARITY DANGEROUS,

A* 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.

STRADA'S NIGHTING ALE.

HE shepherd touch'd his reed; sweet Philomel Essay’d, and oft essay'd to catch the strain, And treasuring, as on her ear they fell, The numbers, echo'd 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,

Return'd the sounds awhile, but in the close
Exhausted fell, and at his feet expired.

Thus strength, not skill, prevail'd, O fatal strife,
By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun;

And O sad victory, which cost thy life,
And he may wish that he had never won |

THE CAUSE WON.

WO 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 increas'd 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 INNOCENT THIEF.

OT a flow'r can be found in the fields, Or the spot that we till for our pleasure, From the largest to least, but it yields The bee, never wearied, a treasure,

Scarce any she quits unexplor'd,
With a diligence truly exact;

Yet, steal what she may for her hoard,
Leaves evidence none of the fact.

Her lucrative task she pursues,
And pilfers with so much address,

That none of their odour they lose,
Nor charm by their beauty the less.

Not thus inoffensively preys
The canker-worm, indwelling foe!

His voracity not thus allays
The sparrow, the finch, or the crow.

The worm, more expensively fed,
The pride of the garden devours;

And birds peck the seed from the bed,
Still less to be spar'd than the flow'rs.

But she, with such delicate skill,
Her pillage so fits for her use,

That the chemist in vain with his still
Would labour the like to produce.

Then grudge not her temperate meals,
Nor a benefit blame as a theft;

Since, stole she not all that she steals,
Neither honey nor wax would be left.

THE TEARS OF A PAINTER.

A”; hearing that his boy
Hadjust expir’d—his only joy
Although the sight with anguish tore him,
Bade place his dear remains before him.
He seized his brush, his colours spread;
And—“Oh my child, accept,”—he said
“('Tis all that I can now bestow),
This tribute of a father's woe ”
Then faithful to the two-fold part,
Both of his feelings and his art,
He clos'd his eyes, with tender care,
And form'd at once a fellow pair.
His brow with amber locks beset,
And lips he drew, not livid yet;
And shaded all that he had done
To a just image of his son,

« PreviousContinue »