THE PINE-APPLE AND THE BEE.

The pine-apples in triple row,
Were basking hot, and all in blow;
A bee of most discerning taste
Perceived the fragrance as he passed ;
On eager wing the spoiler came,
And searched for crannies in the frame,
Urged his attempt on every side,
To every pane his trunk applied ;
But still in vain, the frame was tight,
And only pervious to the light:
Thus, having wasted half the day,
He trimmed his flight another way.

Methinks, I said, in thee I find
The sin and madness of mankind.
To joys forbidden man aspires,
Consumes his soul with vain desires;
Folly the spring of his pursuit,
And disappointment all the fruit.

The maid, who views with pensive air
The show-glass fraught with glittering ware,
Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets,
But sighs at thought of empty pockets;

Like thine, her appetite is keen,
But ah, the cruel glass between !

Our dear delights are often such, Exposed to view, but not to touch; The sight our foolish heart inflames, We long for pine-apples in frames; With hopeless wish one looks and lingers; One breaks the glass, and cuts his fingers ; But they, whom truth and wisdom lead, Can gather honey from a weed.

Cowper.

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S

PICTURE.

Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.'
Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smiles I see,
The same, that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say,
“Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears

away !”

* * * * * * My Mother! when I learned that thou wast

dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?

On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture. 17 Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss, Ah that maternal smile! It answers—Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse, that bore thee slow away; And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! . But was it such ? It was. Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting sound shall pass my lips no more ! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return. What ardently I wished, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. By disappointment every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learned at last submission to my lot, But though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no

more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,

'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession ! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightest know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionery plum ;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and

glowed ;
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age, .
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay,
Such honours to thee as my numbers may; .
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed

here. Could time, his flight reversed, restore the

hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while,

Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and

smile)

Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them

here? I would not trust my heart—the dear delight Seems to be so desired, perhaps I might.But no—what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Cowper.

THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb Ascending, fires the horizon; while the clouds, That crowd away before the driving wind, More ardent as the disk emerges more, Resemble most some city in a blaze, Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, And, tinging all with his own rosy hue, From every herb and every spiry blade Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. Mine, spindling into longitude immense,