Not but I could be well enough content
With what, upon my own account, is spent ;
But those large articles, from whence I reap
No kind of profit, strike me on a heap:
What a vast deal each moment, at a sup,
This ever thirsty Earth itself drinks up!
Such holes! and gaps! Alas! my pond provides
Scarce for its own unconscionable sides:
Nay, how can one imagine it should thrive,
So many creatures as it keeps alive!
Then all the birds that fly along the air
Light at my pond, and come in for a share:
Item, at ev'ry puff of wind that blows,
Away at once the surface of it goes:
The rest, in exhalations to the sun-

One month's fair weather-and I am undone."
This life he led for many a year together;
Grown old and grey in watching of his weather;
Meagre as Death itself, till this same Death
Stopt, as the saying is, his vital breath;
For as th' old man was carrying to his field
A heavier burden than he well could wield,
He miss'd his footing, or in some way fumbled
In tumbling of it in—but in he tumbled:
Mighty desirous to get out again,

He scream'd and scrambled, but 'twas all in vain:
The place was grown so very deep and wide,
Nor bottom of it could he feel, nor side,
And so- i' the middle of his pond-he died.
What think ye now from this imperfect sketch,
My friends, of such a miserable wretch?

Why, 'tis a wretch, we think, of your own making; No fool can be supposed in such a taking:

Your own warm fancy." Nay, but warm or cool,
The world abounds with many such a fool:
The choicest ills, the greatest torments, sure
Are those, which numbers labour to endure.
"What! for a pond?" Why, call it an estate:
You change the name, but realise the fate.

DR. BYROM.

30. MELROSE ABBEY.

[From THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.]

IF thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moon-light;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild but to flout the ruins gray.

When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruin'd central tower;
When buttress and buttress alternately
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;

When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave,
Then go-but go alone the while
Then view St. David's ruin'd pile;
And home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

31. THE COMING OF THE MESSIAH.

HARK

!

[ARK! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers; Prepare the way! a God, a God appears! A God, a God! the vocal hills reply; The rocks proclaim th' approaching Deity. Lo, earth receives Him from the bending skies; Sink down, ye mountains; and, ye valleys, rise; With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay; Be smooth, ye rocks; ye rapid floods, give way The Saviour comes, by ancient bards foretold! Hear Him, ye deaf; and all ye blind, behold! He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, And on the sightless eyeball pour the day: 'Tis He th' obstructed paths of sound shall clear, And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear: The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, And leap exulting like the bounding roe. No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear; From every face He wipes off every tear: In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, And hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound. As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air; Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs; By day o'ersees them, and by night protects; The tender lambs he raises in his arms,

Feeds from his hand; and in his bosom warms; Thus shall mankind His guardian care engage,— The promised Father of the future age.

No more shall nation against nation rise, Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes,

Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er,
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more:
But useless lances into scythes shall bend,
And the broad falchion in a plough-share end.
The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead,
And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead:
The steer and lion at one crib shall meet,
And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet:
The smiling infant in his hand shall take
The crested basilisk and speckled snake;
Pleased, the green lustre of the scales survey,
And with their forky tongue shall innocently play.

POPE.

32. HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.*

THE bark which held a prince went down,
The sweeping waves roll'd on;

And what was England's glorious crown
To him that wept a son?

He lived for life may long be borne,
Ere sorrow break its chain;

Why comes not death to those who mourn

He never smiled again!

There stood proud forms before his throne,
The stately and the brave;

But which could fill the place of

That one beneath the wave?

one,

?

* It is recorded of Henry the First, that, after the death of his son, Prince William, who perished by shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile.

Before him pass'd the

young

and fair,

In pleasures reckless train;

But seas dash'd o'er his son's bright hair

He never smiled again!

He sat where festal bowls went round;
He heard the minstrel sing;

He saw the tournay's victory crown'd
Amidst the knightly ring:

A murmur of the restless deep

Was blent with every strain,

A voice of winds that would not sleep-
He never smiled again!

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace
Of vows once fondly pour'd,

And strangers took the kinsman's place
At many a joyous board;

Graves, which true love had bath'd with tears,
Were left to heaven's bright rain;
Fresh hopes were born for other years-
He never smiled again!

MRS. HEMANS.

33. THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS.

FRIENDSHIP, like love, is but a name,

Unless to few you stint the flame.

The child whom many fathers share,
Hath seldom known a father's care.
"Tis thus in friendships; who depend
On many, rarely find a friend.

A Hare who, in a civil way,
Complied with every thing, like Gay,