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Two travellers of such a cast,
As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed,
And on their way, in friendly chat,
Now talked of this, and then of that,
Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other mat-
ter,

Of the chameleon's form and nature.
"A stranger animal," cries one,
"Sure never lived beneath the sun:
A lizard's body, lean and long,
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue,
Its foot with triple claw disjoined;
And what a length of tail behind!
How slow its pace! and then its hue-
Who ever saw so fine a blue?"

"Hold there," the other quick replies; "T is green, I saw it with these eyes, As late with open mouth it lay, And warmed it in the sunny ray; Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed, And saw it eat the air for food."

"I've seen it, sir, as well as you, And must again affirm it blue; At leisure I the beast surveyed Extended in the cooling shade.' "'T is

green, 't is green, sir, I assure

ye. "Green!" cries the other in a fury; “Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes?"

"'T were no great loss," the friend replies; "For if they always serve you thus, You'll find them but of little use.'

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So high at last the contest rose,
From words they almost came to blows:
When luckily came by a third;
To him the question they referred,
And begged he'd tell them, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue.
"Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your
pother;

The creature 's neither one nor t' other.
I caught the animal last night,
And viewed it o'er by candlelight;
I marked it well, 't was black as jet-
You stare-but, sirs, I've got it yet,
And can produce it." "Pray, sir, do;
I'll lay my life the thing is blue.'
"And I'll be sworn, that when you've

seen

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The mingling notes came softened from below;

The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,

The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;

The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school;

The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind,

These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,

And filled each pause the nightingale had made.

But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,

No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,

But all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widowed, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;

She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread,

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,

To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till

morn;

She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

And still where many a garden flower grows wild,

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,

The village preacher's modest mansion

rose.

A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year;

Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place;

Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,

More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train,

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;

The long-remembered beggar was his guest,

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,

Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;

Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.

Pleased with his guests, the good man

learned to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,

And even his failings leaned to virtue's side:

But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries

To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,

Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,

And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed,

The reverend champion stood. At his control,

Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;

Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,

And his last, faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected

grace,

His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,

And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.

The service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even children followed, with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.

His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;

To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given,

But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.

As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

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Well had the boding tremblers learned | The hearth, except when winter chilled

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Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;

Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's
tale,

No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;

No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,

Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear.

The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.

THOMAS PERCY.

[1728-1811.]

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

It was a friar of orders gray

Walked forth to tell his beads, And he met with a lady fair,

Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.

Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar!

I pray thee tell to me,

If ever at yon holy shrine

My true-love thou didst see.'

"And how should I know your true-love From many another one?" "Oh! by his cockle hat, and staff, And by his sandal shoon;

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"O, stay me not, thou holy friar,
O stay me not, I pray;
No drizzly rain that falls on me
Can wash my fault away."

"Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
And dry those pearly tears;
For see, beneath this gown of gray
Thy own true-love appears.

"Here, forced by grief and hopeless love,
These holy weeds I sought;
And here, amid these lonely walls,
To end my days I thought.

"But haply, for my year of grace
Is not yet passed away,

WILLIAM COWPER.

Might I still hope to win thy love,
No longer would I stay."

"Now farewell grief, and welcome joy

Once more unto my heart; For since I've found thee, lovely youth, We nevermore will part."

WILLIAM COWPER.

[1731-1800.]

LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

TOLL for the brave!

The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave

Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds
And she was overset;
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak,

She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down

With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more.

69

LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed

With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

Those lips are thine,- thy own sweet smile 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!"

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim To quench it!) here shines on me still the

same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bid'st me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, Shall steep me in Elysian revery, A momentary dream that thou art she. My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?

Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just

begun ?

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