Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle, Or (which is likelier to befal)

Till death exterminate us all.

I

marry without more ado.

My dear Dick Redcap, what say you?
Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling,
Turning short round, strutting and sideling,
Attested, glad, his approbation

Of an immediate conjugation.
Their sentiments so well exprest
Influenced mightily the rest,

All paired, and each pair built a nest.
But though the birds were thus in haste,
The leaves came on not quite so fast;
And destiny, that sometimes bears
An aspect stern on man's affairs,
Not altogether smiled on theirs.

The wind, of late breathed gently forth,
Now shifted east and east by north;
Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know,
Could shelter them from rain or snow;
Stepping into their nests, they paddled,
Themselves were chilled, their eggs were addled,
Soon every father bird and mother

Grew quarrelsome, and pecked each other,
Parted without the least regret,
Except that they had ever met,
And learned in future to be wiser,
Than to neglect a good adviser.

INSTRUCTION.

Misses! the tale that I relate

This lesson seems to carryChoose not alone a proper mate, But proper time to marry.

THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY.

NO FABLE.

The noon was shady, and soft airs
Swept Ouse's silent tide,
When, 'scaped from literary cares,
I wandered on his side.

My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree,

(Two nymphs adorned with every grace That spaniel found for me)

Now wantoned, lost in flags and reeds,
Now starting into sight,
Pursued the swallow o'er the meads

With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse displayed

His lilies newly blown;

Their beauties I intent surveyed,
And one I wished my own.

With cane extended far I sought

To steer it close to land;

But still the prize, though nearly caught, Escaped my eager hand.

Beau marked my unsuccessful pains

With fixt considerate face,
And puzzling sat his puppy brains
To comprehend the case.

But with a chirrup clear and strong,
Dispersing all his dream,

I thence withdrew, and followed long
The windings of the stream.

My ramble finished, I returned,
Beau trotting far before

The floating wreath again discerned,
And plunging left the shore.

I saw him with that lily eropped
Impatient swim to meet

My quick approach, and soon he dropped
The treasure at my feet.

Charmed with the sight, the world, I cried,
Shall hear of this thy deed:

My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man's superior breed:

But chief myself I will enjoin,

Awake at duty's call,

To shew a love as prompt as thine To Him who gives me all.

THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE PLANT.

An Oyster, cast upon the shore,

Was heard, though never heard before,
Complaining in a speech well worded,
And worthy thus to be recorded-

Ah, hapless wretch! condemned to dwell
For ever in my native shell;

Ordained to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease;
But tossed and buffeted about,
Now in the water and now out.
"Twere better to be born a stone,
Of ruder shape, and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And sensibilities so fine!

I envy that unfeeling shrub,
Fast-rooted against every rub.

The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the sneer with scorn enough;
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
And with asperity replied.

When, cry the botanists, and stare,
Did plants called sensitive grow there?
No matter when—a poet's Muse is

To make them grow just where she chooses.
You shapeless nothing in a dish,
You that are but almost a fish,
I scorn your coarse insinuation,
And have most plentiful occasion
To wish myself the rock I view,

Or such another dolt as you:

For many a grave and learned clerk,

And many a gay unlettered spark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he;

And when I bend, retire, and shrink,
Says-Well, 'tis more than one would think!
Thus life is spent (oh fie upon't!)
In being touched, and crying-Don't.
A poet, in his evening walk,
O'erheard and checked this idle talk.
And your fine sense, he said, and your's,
Whatever evil it endures,

Deserves not, if so soon offended,
Much to be pitied or commended.
Disputes, though short, are far too long,
Where both alike are in the wrong;
Your feelings in their full amount,
Are all upon your own account.

You, in your grotto-work enclosed,
Complain of being thus exposed;
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driven by wind or tide,
Exempt from every ill beside.

And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon every touch a blemish,
If all the plants, that can be found
Embellishing the scene around,
Should droop and wither where they grow,
You would not feel at all-not you.,
The noblest minds their virtue prove
By pity, sympathy, and love:
These, these are feelings truly fine,
And prove their owner half divine.

His censure reached them as he dealt it,
And each by shrinking showed he felt it.

ON A GOLDFINCH STARVED TO DEATH

IN HIS CAGE.

Time was when I was free as air,
The thistle's downy seed my fare,
My drink the morning dew;
I perched at will on every spray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,
My strains for ever new.

But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,
And form genteel, were all in vain,

And of a transient date;

For caught and caged, and starved to death, In dying sighs my little breath

Soon passed the wiry grate.

Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes,
And thanks for this effectual close,
And cure of every ill!

More cruelty could none express;
And I, if you had shown me less,
Had been your prisoner still.

TRANSLATIONS FROM V. BOURNE.

THE GLOW-WORM.

Beneath the hedge, or near the stream,

A worm is known to stray;
That shews by night a lucid beam,
Which disappears by day.

Disputes have been, and still prevail,
From whence his rays proceed;
Some give that honour to his tail,
And others to his head.

But this is sure-the hand of might,
That kindles up the skies,
Gives him a modicum of light
Proportioned to his size.

Perhaps indulgent nature meant,
By such a lamp bestowed,
To bid the traveller, as he went,

Be careful where he trod:

Nor crush a worm, whose useful light Might serve, however small,

To shew a stumbling stone by night, And save him from a fall.

Whate'er she meant, this truth divine Is legible and plain,

'Tis power almighty bids him shine, Nor bids him shine in vain.

Ye proud and wealthy, let this theme

Teach humbler thoughts to you, Since such a reptile has its gem, And boasts its splendour too.

THE JACKDAW.

There is a bird who by his coat,
And by the hoarseness of his note,

Might be supposed a crow;
A great frequenter of the church,
Where bishop-like he finds a perch,
And dormitory too.

Above the steeple shines a plate,
That turns and turns, to indicate

From what point blows the weather. Look up your brains begin to swim; "Tis in the clouds-that pleases him, He chooses it the rather.

Fond of the speculative height,
Thither he wings his airy flight,

And thence securely sees
The bustle and the raree-show,
That occupy mankind below,
Secure and at his ease.

You think, no doubt, he sits and muses
On future broken bones and bruises,

If he should chance to fall.
No; not a single thought like that
Employs his philosophic pate,
Or troubles it at all.

He sees that this great roundabout

The world, with all its motley rout,
Church, army, physic, law,
Its customs, and its businesses,
Is no concern at all of his,

And says-what says he?-Caw.

Thrice happy bird! I too have seen Much of the vanities of men;

And, sick of having seen 'em, Would cheerfully these limbs resign For such a pair of wings as thine, And such a head between 'em.

THE CRICKET.

Little inmate, full of mirth,
Chirping on my kitchen hearth,
Wheresoe'er be thine abode,
Always harbinger of good.
Pay me for thy warm retreat
With a song more soft and sweet;
In return thou shalt receive
Such a strain as I can give.

Thus thy praise shall be exprest,
Inoffensive, welcome guest!
While the rat is on the scout,
And the mouse with curious snout,
With what vermin else infest
Every dish, and spoil the best;
Frisking thus before the fire,
Thou hast all thine heart's desire.

Though in voice and shape they be
Formed as if akin to thee,
Thou surpassest, happier far,
Happiest grasshoppers that are;
Theirs is but a summer's song,
Thine endures the winter long,
Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear,
Melody throughout the year.

Neither night, nor dawn of day,
Puts a period to thy play:
Sing then-and extend thy span
Far beyond the date of man.

Wretched man, whose years are spent

In repining discontent,

Lives not, aged though he be,
Half a span, compar'd with thee.

THE PARROT.

In painted plumes superbly drest,
A native of the gorgeous east,
By many a billow tost;

Poll gains at length the British shore,
Part of the captain's precious store,
A present to his toast.

Belinda's maids are soon preferred To teach him now and then a word, As Poll can master it;

But 'tis her own important charge To qualify him more at large,

And make him quite a wit.

Sweet Poll! his doating mistress cries, Sweet Poll! the mimic bird replies;

And calls aloud for sack. She next instructs him in the kiss; 'Tis now a little one, like Miss,

And now a hearty smack.

At first he aims at what he hears;
And, listening close with both his ears,
Just catches at the sound;

But soon articulates aloud,
Much to the amusement of the crowd,
And stuns the neighbours round.

A querulous old woman's voice
His humorous talent next employs,

He scolds and gives the lie.
And now he sings, and now is sick,
Here Sally, Susan, come, come quick,
Poor Poll is like to die!

Belinda and her bird! 'tis rare

To meet with such a well-matched pair,
The language and the tone,

Each character in every part
Sustained with so much grace and art,
And both in unison.

When children first begin to spell,
And stammer out a syllable,

We think them tedious creatures;

But difficulties soon abate,

When birds are to be taught to prate,
And women are the teachers.

THE DIVERTING

HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN,

SHEWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED, AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN.

John Gilpin was a citizen

Of credit and renown,

A train-band captain eke was he

Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen.

To-morrow is our wedding-day,

And we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton
All in a chaise and pair.

My sister, and my sister's child,
Myself, and children three,
Will fill the chaise; so you must ride
On horesback after we.

Then over all, that he might be

He soon replied, I do admire

Of womankind but one,

And you are she, my dearest dear,

Therefore it shall be done.

I am a linen-draper bold,

As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calender

Will lend his horse to go.

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, That's well said;

And, for that wine is dear,
We will be furnished with our own,

Which is both bright and clear.
John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;
O'erjoyed was he to find

That, though on pleasure she was bent,
She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought,
But yet was not allowed

To drive up to the door, lest all

Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stayed,
Where they did all get in;

Six precious souls, and all agog

To dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,
Were never folk so glad,

The stones did rattle underneath,
As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse's side

Seized fast the flowing mane,

And up he got, in haste to ride,

But soon came down again;

For saddle-tree scarce reached had he,
His journey to begin,

When, turning round his head, he saw
Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time,
Although it grieved him sore;
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,
Would trouble him much more.

'Twas long before the customers

Were suited to their mind,
When Betty screaming came down stairs,
"The wine is left behind!"

Good lack! quoth he-yet bring it me,
My leathern belt likewise,
In which I bear my trusty sword
When I do exercise.

Now mistress Gilpin (careful soul!)
Had two stone bottles found,
To hold the liquor that she loved,
And keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curling ear,
Through which the belt he drew,
And hung a bottle on each side,
To make his balance true.

Equipped from top to toe,

His long red cloak, well brushed and neat,
He manfully did throw.

Now see him mounted once again
Upon his nimble steed,
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones,
With caution and good heed.

But finding soon a smoother road
Beneath his well-shod feet,
The snorting beast began to trot,
Which galled him in his seat.

So, fair and softly, John he cried,
But John he cried in vain ;
That trot became a gallop soon,

In spite of curb and rein.

So stooping down, as needs he must
Who cannot sit upright,

He grasped the mane with both his hands,
And eke with all his might.

His horse, who never in that sort
Had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got
Did wonder more and more.

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;
Away went hat and wig;
He little dreamt when he set out,
Of running such a rig.

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly
Like streamer long and gay,
Till, loop and button failing both,
At last it flew away.

Then might all people well discern
The bottles he had slung;

A bottle swinging at each side,

As hath been said or sung.

The dogs did bark, the children screamed,
Up flew the windows all;

And every soul cried out, Well done!
As loud as he could bawl.

Away went Gilpin-who but he?

His fame soon spread around,
He carries weight! he rides a race!

"Tis for a thousand pound!

And still, as fast as he drew near,
'Twas wonderful to view
How in a trice the turnpike men
Their gates wide open threw.
And now, as he went bowing down
His reeking head full low,
The bottles twain behind his back
Were shattered at a blow.

Down ran the wine into the road,

Most piteous to be seen,

Which made his horse's flanks to smoke, As they had basted been.