O reader I had you in your mind Such stores as silent, thought can bring, O gentle reader! you would find A tale in every thing. What more I have to say is short, I hope you'll kindly take it; It is no tale; but should you think, One summer-day I chanced to see The mattock totter'd in his hand; So vain was his endeavour That at the root of the old tree He might have worked for ever. "You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, Give me your tool" to him I said; And at the word right gladly he I struck, and with a single blow The tangled root I sever'd, At which the poor old man so long The tears into his eyes were brought, So fast out of his heart, I thought -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning. Alas! the gratitude of men Has oftner left me mourning, ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS, SHEWING HOW THE ART OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT. I have a boy of five years old, His face is fair and fresh to see} His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, And dearly he loves me. One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk, Our quiet house all full in view, And held such intermitted talk As we are wont to do. My thoughts on former pleasures ran ; A day it was when I could bear To think, and think, and think again ; I could not feel a pain. My boy was by my side, so slim And graceful in his rustic dress! And oftentimes I talked to him, In very idleness. The young lambs ran a pretty race; The morning sun shone bright and warm; "Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place, "And so is Liswyn farm. r My little boy, which like you more," I said and took him by the arm "Our home by Kilve's delightful shore, "Or here at Liswyn farm ?” "And tell me, had you rather be," I said and held him by the arm, "At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea, "Or here at Liswyn farm? In careless mood he looked at me, And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be Now, little Edward, say why so; My little Edward, tell me why;" "I cannot tell, I do not know." "Why this is strange," said I. |