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The viands were various, to each of their taste,
And the Bee brought her honey to crown the repast.
Then close on his haunches, so solemn and wise,
The Frog from a corner look'd up to the skies.

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And the Squirrel, well pleased such diversions to see,
Mounted high over-head, and look'd down from a tree.
Then out came the Spider, with finger so fine,
To show his dexterity on the tight line.

From one branch to another, his cobwebs he slung,
Then quick as an arrow he darted along.
But, just in the middle-Oh! shocking to tell,-
From his rope, in an instant, poor harlequin fell.
Yet he touch'd not the ground, but with talons out-

spread,
Hung suspended in air, at the end of a thread.
Then the Grasshopper came with a jerk and a spring,
Very long was his leg, though but short was his wing;
He took but three leaps, and was soon out of sight,
Then chirp'd his own praises the rest of the night.
With step so majestic the Snail did advance,
And promised the gazers a minuet to dance.
But they all laugh'd so loud that he pull'd in his head,
And went in his own little chamber to bed.
Then, as evening gave way to the shadows of night,
Their watchman, the Glow-worm, came out with a

light.
Then home let us hasten, while yet we can see,
For no Watchman is waiting for you and for me.
So said little Robert, and, pacing along,
His merry companions return'd in a throng.

ROSCOE.

LAMENTATION FOR THE DEATH OF CELIN.

At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are

barr’d, At twilight, at the Vega gate, there is a trampling

heard ; There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow, And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound

of woe. “What tower is fall'n, what star is set, what chief

come these bewailing ?” A tower is fall'n, a star is set. Alas! alas, for Celin!"

Three times they knock, three times they cry, and

wide the doors they throw: Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go : In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the

hollow porch, Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and

flaming torch; Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is

wailing, For all have heard the misery. “Alas! alas, for Celin!"

Him, yesterday, a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje’s blood, 'Twas at the solemn jousting; around the nobles

stood ; The Hobles of the land were there, and the ladies

bright and fair Look'd from their latticed windows, the haughty sight

to share; But now the nobles all lament, the ladies are be

wailing, For he was Granada’s darling knight. “ Alas! alas,

for Celin!” Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two, With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to

view;

Behind him his four sisters, each wrapt in sable veil, Between the tambour's dismal strokes take

up

their doleful tale ; When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brother

less bewailing, And all the people, far and near, cry,~“Alas! alas,

for Celin!”

O, lovely lies he on the bier above the purple pall, The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of

them all ; His dark, dark eyes are closed, and his rosy lip is pale, The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his

burnish'd mail, And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon

their wailing, Its sound is like no earthly sound,-“Alas! alas, for

Celin!"

The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, the Moor

stands at his door, One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weep

ing sore : Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes

black they strew, Upon their broider'd garments of crimson, green and

blueBefore each gate the bier stands still, then bursts the

loud bewailing, From door and lattice, high and low-_"Alas! alas,

for Celin!"

An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the

people cry; Her hair is white as silyer, like horn her glazed eye. 'Twas she that nursed him at her breast, that nursed

him long ago; She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she

well shall know

With one deep shriek she through doth break, when

her ears receive their wailing“ Let me kiss my Celin ere I die- Alas! alas, for Celin!"

LOCKHEART.

ODE.

O MELANCHOLY Moon, Queen of the midnight, though thou palest away

Far in the dusky west, to vanish soon Under the hills that catch thy waning ray, Still art thou beautiful beyond all spheres, The friend of grief, and confidant of tears.

Mine earliest friend wert thou: My boyhood's passion was to stretch me under The locust tree, and, through the chequer'd

bough,
Wich thy far pathway in the clouds, and wonder
At thy strange loveliness, and wish to be
The nearest star to roam the heavens with thee.

Youth grew; but as it came,
And sadness with it, still, with joy, I stole

To gaze, and dream, and breathe perchance the
That was the early music of my soul,
And seem'd upon thy pictured disk to trace
Remember'd features of a radiant face.

And manhood, though it bring
A winter to my bosom, cannot turn

Mine eyes from thy lone loveliness; still spring
My tears to meet thee, and the spirit stern
Falters, in secret, with the ancient thrill-
The boyish yearning to be with thee still.

Would it were so; for earth
Grows shadowy, and her fairest planets fail ;

name

And her sweet chimes, that once were woke to

mirth,
Turn to a moody melody of wail,
And through her stony throngs I go alone,
Even with the heart I cannot turn to stone.

Would it were so; for still
Thou art my only counsellor, with whom

Mine eyes can have no bitler shame to fill,
Nor my weak lips to murmur at the doom
Of solitude, which is so sad and sore,
Weighing like lead upon my bosom's core.

A boyish thought, and weak:-
I shall look up to thee from the deep sea,

And in the land of palms, and on the peak
Of her wild hills, still turn my eyes to thee;
And then perhaps lie down in solemn rest,
With naught but thy pale beams upon my breast.

Let it be so indeed
Earth hath her peace beneath the trampled stone:

And let me perish where no heart shall bleed, And naught, save passing winds, shall make my No tears, save night's, to wash my humble shrine, And watching o'er me, no pale face but thine.

DR. BIRD.

moan ;

THE CORAL INSECT. Toil on! toil on! ye ephemeral train, Who build in the tossing and treacherous main; Toil on--for the wisdom of man ye mock, With your sand-based structures and domes of rock; Your columns the fathomless fountains lave, And your arches spring up to the crested wave; Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear.

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