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Behold, the busy negro race,
See, millions blacken all the place!
Fear not like me with freedom eat;
An ant is most delightful meat.

How bless'd, how envied were our life,
Could we but 'scape the poult'rer's knife!
But man, curs'd man, on turkeys preys,
And Christmas shortens all our days:
Sometimes with oysters we combine,
Sometimes assist the sav'ry chine;
From the low peasant to the lord,
The turkey smokes on every board.
Sure men for gluttony are curs'd,
Of the sev'n deadly sins the worst.

An ant, who climb'd beyond her reach, Thus answer'd from the neighb'ring beech; Ere you remark another's sin,

Bid thy own conscience look within :
Control thy more voracious bill,

Nor for a breakfast nations kill.

ON A FAVORITE CAT

DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES.

BY GRAY.

'Twas on a lofty vase's side
Where China's gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow,
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared:
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,

Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She saw, and purr'd applause.

Still had she gazed, but midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The genii of the stream:
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue,
Through richest purple, to the view
Betray'd a golden gleam.

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw,
A whisker first, and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,

She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize, That female heart can gold despise ? What cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Again she stretch'd, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between-
Malignant fate sat by and smiled-
The slippery verge her feet beguiled;
She tumbled headlong in!

Eight times emerging from the flood
She mew'd to every watery god
Some speedy aid to send :

No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd,
Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard-
A favorite has no friend!

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF

ETON COLLEGE.

YE distant spires! ye antique towers!
That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade;

*

And ye, that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights the expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among
Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way;

Ah, happy hills!-ah, pleasing shade!
Ah, fields beloved in vain!
Where once my careless childhood strayed
A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales that from you blow
A momentary bliss bestow,

As waving fresh their gladsome wing
My weary soul they seem to soothe
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames! for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,
The paths of pleasure trace,
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which enthral ?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

* Henry VI. founded Eton College.

G

While some on earnest business bent
Their murmuring labours ply
'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint
To sweeten liberty;

Some bold adventurers disdain

The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry;
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast;
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer, of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly the approach of morn.

*

*

*

*

*

*

To each his sufferings: all are men,

Condemned alike to groan,

The tender for another's pain,
The unfeeling for his own.

Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,
Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies?
Thought would destroy their paradise:
No more-where ignorance is bliss
'Tis folly to be wise.

THE FAKENHAM GHOST.

A BALLAD

By ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

*

THE lawns were dry in Euston Park;
(Here truth inspires my tale)
The lonely footpath, still and dark,
Led over hill and dale.

Benighted was an ancient dame,
And fearful haste she made,
To gain the vale of Fakenham,
And hail its willow shade.

Her footsteps knew no idle stops,
But followed faster still;

And echoed to the darksome copse

That whispered on the hill

Where clamorous rooks, yet scarcely hushed,
Bespoke a peopled shade:

And many a wing the foliage brushed,
And hovering circuits made.

The dappled herd of grazing deer,
That sought the shades by day,
Now started from her path with fear,
And gave the stranger way.

Darker it grew; and darker fears

Came o'er her troubled mind;
When now, a short quick step she hears
Come patting close behind.

*This ballad is founded on a fact. The circumstance occurred perhaps long before I was born; but is still related by my mother and some of the oldest inhabitants of that part of the country.-R. B.

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