Page images



By Dr. Cotton.

CONSULT the Moralist, you'll find
That education forms the mind.
But education ne'er supplied
What ruling nature hath denied.
If you'll the following page pursue,
My tale shall prove this doctrine true.

Since to the muse all brutes belong,
The Lamb shall usher in my song;
Whose snowy fleece, adorn'd her skin,
Emblem of native white within.. ini
Meekness and love possess'd her soul,
And innocence had crown'd the whole...

It chanc'd in some unguarded hour,- , (Ah! purity, precarious flower!.. . Let maidens of the present age Tremble, when they peruse my page ;) , It chanc'd upon a luckless day, .. The little wanton, full of play, Rejoic'd a thymy bank to gain, But short the triumphs of her reign! The treacherous slopes her fate foretell, And soon the pretty trifler fell :

Beneath, a dirty ditch impress'd
Its mire upon her spotless vest.
What greater ill could lamb betide,
The butcher's fatal knife beside ?

The Shepherd, wounded with her cries,
Straight to the bleating sufferer flies.
The lambkin in his arms he took,
And bore her to a neighbouring brook :
The silver streams her wool refin'd,
Her fleece in virgin whiteness shin'd.

Cleans'd from pollution's every stain, She join'd her fellows on the plain; And saw afar the filthy shore, But ne'er approach'd those dangers more. The Shepherd bless'd the kind event, And view'd his flock with sweet content.

To market next he shap'd his way, And bought provisions for the day; But made for winter's rich supply, A purchase from a farmer's sty. The children round their parent crowd, And testify their mirth aloud; They saw the stranger with surprise, And all admir'd his little eyes: Familiar grown he shar'd their joys, Shar'd too the porridge with the boys. The females o'er his dress preside, They wash his face and scour his hide ; But daily more a Swine he grew, For all these housewives e'er could do.

Hence let my youthful reader know, That once a Hog, and always $o*,

* "The Dog is returned to his own womit again ; and the Sow that was washed to her wallowing in the mire.'-2 Peter ii. 22.



By Dr. John Ogilvie.

ENVY! thou Fiend, whose venom'd sting
Still points to Fame's aspiring wing ;
Whose breath, blue sulphur's blasting steam,
Whose eye the basilisk's lightning-gleam;
Say, thro’the dun isle's solemn round,
Where Death's dread footstep prints the ground,
Lov'st thou to haunt the yawning tomb,
And crush fall’n Grandeur's dusty plume ?
Or where the wild Hyæna's yell
Rings thro' the hermit's cavern'd cell,
Moves thy black wing its devious flight,
Thy wing that bloats the cheek of night?
There oft beneath some hoary wall
Thy stings are dipp'd in scorpion's gall;
Thence whizzing springs the forky dart,
And spreads its poison to the heart.

Hence all th' unnumber'd cares of life;
Hence malice, fury, rapine, strife;
Hence all exclaim on partial fate ;
Hence pale Revenge, and stern Debate;
Hence man (to every passion prone)
Sees much, loves all;—but hates his own.

Now, Delia, should she chance to know
Some trifling fool,—perhaps—a beau,
The fair at once implores the skies,
With glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes :
Make but this charming creature prove
A victim to the power of love.

The beau is caught, he swears, and bows,
Protests, and snuffs, and sweats, and vows,
By all the oaths the fool can swear,
That never creature was so fair :
Then adds a thousand more to tell
That never mortal lov'd so well.

The prize is gain'd—the pleasure o'er ;
Lace, bag, and snuff-box charm no more :
No bosom feels the killing smart,:!
No side-long glance betrays the heart,
No fan conceals a rival's fears, ;
No cheek is stain'd with spiteful tears.
On new delights her passions fix,
A court perhaps, or coach and six ;
She wants a ball, and justly vain,
Admires a title, or a cane.

But ere our reader's patience fail, 'Tis time we now begin our tale.

An honest Farmer, old and sage,
(Sure wisdom still attends on age) .
One morning rose, when all was fair,
And joyous breath'd the scented air,
Wak’d by the zephyr's tepid wing,
Aurora, fragrant as the spring, i
Rose from her couch, the busy Hours
Stole from their crimson-curtain'd bowers;
The sky's broad gates at once unfold,
The light clouds flame with cinctur'd gold;
The woodland gleams, the silver stream:
Waves to the broad sun's flutt'ring beam;
The feather'd people sing their love,
And music rings along the grove.....

Elate, the happy clown survey'd.
The field wide-opening thro' the shade ;
The green ears rustling to the gale:
Shot thro' to thin night's ruffled veil ;
Slow rose to sight the new-born day,
Slow crept the lingering shades away,
'Till o'er the broad hill's summit dun.
Obliquely, glanc'd the mounting sun;
And all-illum'd with rushing light,
The swelling landscape burst to sight.

As the fond mother's panting breast
Throbs o'er her infant hush'd to rest,
Warm in his little hut, the boy
Flutters elate with rising joy;
As by her gentle pressure sway'd,
Swings soft and slow the sleepy bed ;:,

« PreviousContinue »