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FROM

VINCENT BOURNE.

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.

RECIPROCAL KINDNESS,

THE PRIMARY LAW OF NATURE.

ANDROCLES from his injured lord in dread
Of instant death, to Libya's desert fled.
Tired with his toilsome flight, and parch'd with heat,
He spied, at length, a cavern's cool retreat,

But scarce had given to rest his weary frame,
When, hugest of his kind, a lion came:
He roar'd approaching; but the savage din
To plaintive murmurs changed, arrived within,
And with expressive looks, his lifted paw
Presenting, aid implored from whom he saw.
The fugitive, through terror at a stand,
Dared not awhile afford his trembling hand,
But bolder grown, at length inherent found
A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound.
The cure was wrought; he wiped the sanious blood,
And firm and free from pain the lion stood.
Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day,
Regales his inmate with the parted prey;
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.

S.C.-10.

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 merits 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 grow

less and less; The last are least of all.

0! 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.

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 nought,
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 an 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.

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