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At length he seized on Bluebottle,

That strong and burly man, And with many and many a desperate tug,

To hoist him up began:

And step by step, and step by step,

He went with heavy tread;
But ere he reach'd the garret door,

Poor Bluebottle was dead!

Now all this while, a Magistrate,

Who lived the house hard by,
Had watch'd Web-Spinner's cruelty

Through a window privily:
So in he burst, through bolts and bars,

With a loud and thundering sound,
And vow'd to burn the house with fire,

And level it with the ground;

But the wicked churl, who all his life

Had look'd for such a day,
Pass'd through a trap-door in the wall,
And took himself away:

But where he went no man could tell;

'T was said that underground, He died a miserable death,

But his body ne'er was found.

Chey pull'd his house down stick and stone,

“For a caitiff vile as he," Said they,“ within our quiet town Shall not a dweller be!"


As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still look'd back
To that dear isle 't was leaving.
So loath we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts, where'er we rove,
To those we've left behind us.



YE tradeful merchants! that with weary toil
Do seek most precious things to make your gain,
And both the Indies of their treasures spoil;
What needeth you to seek so far in vain ?
For lo! my love doth in herself contain
All this world's riches that may far be found;
If saphyrs, lo! her eyes be saphyrs plain;
If rubies, lo! her lips be rubies sound;
If pearls, her teeth be pearls, both pure and round ;
If ivory her forehead ivory ween;
If gold, her locks are finest gold on ground;
If silver, her fair hands are silver sheen:
But that which fairest is, but few behold,
Her mind, adorn'd with virtues manifold.


SHE was a form of life and light,
That, seen, became a part of sight;
And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye,
The morning star of memory.


PURE in her aim, and in her temper mild,
Her wisdom seems the weakness of a child :
She makes excuses where she might condemn,
Reviled by those that hate her, prays for them;
Suspicion lurks not in her artless breast,
The worst suggested, she believes the best;
Not soon provoked, however stung and teased,
And, if perhaps made angry, soon appeased;
She rather waives than will dispute her right,
And injured makes forgiveness her delight.



EVERY copse
Deep tangled, tree irregular, and bush
Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads
Of the coy quiristers that lodge within,
Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush
And wood-lark, o'er the kind contending throng
Superior heard, run through the sweetest lengih
Of notes; when listening Philomela deigns
To let them joy, and purposes, in thought
Elate, to make her night excel the day.


TEN thousand warblers cheer the day, and one
The live-long night: nor these alone whose notes
Nice finger'd art must emulate in vain,
But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime
In still repeated circles, screaming loud;
The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl
That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.



SUCH was Zuleika! such around her shone
The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone:
The light of love, the purity of

The mind, the music breathing from her face,
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole
And, oh! that eye was in itself a soul !


THE MOTHER'S SOLACE. Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps, Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps ; She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes, And weaves a song of melancholy joy"Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy; No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine; No sigħ that rends thy father's heart and mine; Bright as his manly síre, the son shall be, In form and soul; but ah! more bless'd than he! Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last, Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past, With many a smile my solitude repay, And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.”


THE FATHER'S JOY. To aid thy mind's development-to watch Thy dawn of little joys—to sit and see Almost thy very growth-to view thee catch Knowledge of objects-wonder yet to thee! To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss This, it should seem, was not reserved for me! Yet this was in my nature :-as it is, I know not what is there, yet something like to this.


The mind, that broods o'er guilty woes,
Is like the scorpion girt by fire,
In circle narrowing as it glows,
The flames around their captive close,
Till inly search'd by thousand throes,
And madd’ning in her ire,
One sad and sole relief she knows,
The sting she nourish'd for her foes,
Whose venom never yet was vain,
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain,
And darts into her desperate brain.
So do the dark in soul expire,
Or live like scorpion girt by fire;
So writhes the mind remorse hath riven,
Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven,
Darkness above, despair beneath,
Around it flame, within it death!


THE RURAL MAID. What happiness the rural maid attends, In cheerful labour while each day she spends! She gratefully receives what heaven has sent, And, rich in poverty, enjoys content. (Such happiness, and such unblemish'd fame, Ne'er glad the bosom of the courtly dame :) She never feels the spleen's imagined pains, Nor melancholy stagnates in her veins; She never loses life in thoughtless ease, Nor on the velvet couch invites disease; Her home-spun dress in simple neatness lies, And for no glaring equipage she sighs : Her reputation, which is all her boast, In a malicious visit ne'er was lost, No midnight masquerade her beauty wears, And health, not paint, the fading bloom repairs.


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