Thus oft is spent an idle hour,

In shewing my attracting pow'r. 'The greatest beauties in the land

• Have held me in their snowy hand;

To all on earth my merit's known,

'From Jack the Sailor to the throne.'
A Mirror, plac'd upon the lid,
His empty vauntings quickly chid:
'Virtue is known from noisome weeds,
'Not by her words, but by her deeds;
'If 'mid the leaves no fruit I see,

' (However great your parts may be)

If still you prove an idle tool,

"You only are the greater fool.

'Go, please the fair, make needles dance; ' And sink in insignificance.'

This speech awoke the Load-Stone's pride, And, thus, indignantly he cried:

Who does not know the Magnet's force? 'It guides the Seamen's dang'rous course. 'When ocean wide he dares explore, 'It steers him to the wish'd-for shore; 'Ausonia, Tagus, or the Nile, 'To India's realms, Batavia's isle: Or, torn by storms, by tempest hurl'd, 'Directs him to the western world, 'Where'er he go, or near, or far, The Magnet is his leading star; 'To frozen climes, or realms of day, The faithful Magnet points the way.

• Then think not, Wretch! reproach like thine 'Can injure merit great as mine.'

'It grieves me much,' the Mirror cried, 'To see such talents misapplied.

'Such powers as your's I ne'er shall share,
'Yet what I have I use with care.
Each form presented to my view,
'I straight reflect in colours true;
'Shew Sin her stain, and Power his rod,
And War the thunderbolt of God.

'The lineaments of Truth I shew,

And charity's benignant glow;

Give Fraud his features of disgrace,

And mark the grin on Folly's face, 'Shew Wit his plume, and Vice his scar, • In short reflect them-as they are;

While you with parts intrinsic blest, 'Lie idly on the lap of rest.

The time's at hand, when you will rue
The good you now neglect to do;
For all the powers to thee assign'd
'Were meant as blessings to mankind.'
Thus men of genius, parts, and sense,
Wrapt in the cloak of indolence;
By sloth enslav'd, to duty blind,
Obscure the splendour of the mind.
But know, O Man, it is decreed,
That he who sow'd shall reap the seed,
If great your boasted talents be,
Great your responsibility :

For genius is the gift of Heaven,
And much requir'd where much is given.

FABLE LX.

THE PLUM-CAKES ;

OR, THE FARMER AND HIS THREE SONS.

By Mrs. Hannah More..

A FARMER, who some wealth possess'd,
With three fine Boys was also bless'd;
The lads were healthy, stout, and young,
And neither wanted sense nor tongue.
Tom, Will, and Jack, like other boys,
Lov'd tops and marbles, sport and toys.
The Father scouted that false plan,
That money only makes the man;
But, to the best of his discerning,

Was bent on giving them good learning :
He was a man of observation,

No scholar, yet had penetration;

So, with due care, a school he sought,

Where his young sons might well be taught.

Quoth he, I know not which rehearses.

'Most properly his themes or verses;

'Yet I can do a father's part,

And school the temper, mind, and heart; • The natural bent of each I'll know, 'And trifles best that bent may show.' "Twas just before the closing year, When Christmas holidays were near, The Farmer call'd to see his boys, And ask how each his time employs.

Quoth Will, There's Father, boys, without,
'He's brought us something good, no doubt.'
The Father sees their merry faces,
With joy beholds them and embraces.

Come, boys, of home you'll have your fill.' 'Yes, Christmas now is near,' says Will; ''Tis just twelve days-these notches see, 'My notches with the days agree.' 'Well,' said the Sire,' again I'll come, 'And gladly fetch my brave boys home. You two the dappl'd mare shall ride, 'Jack mount the poney by my side; 'Mean time, my lads, I've brought you here 'No small profusion of good cheer.'

Then from his pocket straight he takes

A vast profusion of Plum-cakes;
He counts them out, a plenteous store,
No boy shall have or less or more;
Twelve cakes he gave to each dear son,
When each expected only one;
And, then, with many a kind expression,
He leaves them to their own discretion;

Resolv'd to mark the use each made
Of what he to their hands convey'd.

The twelve days past, he comes once more,
And brings the horses to the door ;
The boys with rapture see appear
The poney and the dappl'd mare;
Each moment now an hour they count,
And crack their whips and long to mount.
As with the Boys his ride he takes,
He askes the history of the Cakes.

Says Will, 'Dear Father, life is short, 'So I resolv'd to make quick sport,

The Cakes were all so nice and sweet,
'I thought I'd have one jolly treat;
'Why should I balk, said I, my taste?
'I'll make at once a hearty feast.
'So snugly by myself I fed,

'When ev'ry boy was gone to bed;
'I gorg'd them all, both paste and plum,
'And did not spare a single crumb;
'Indeed they made me, to my sorrow,
'As sick as death upon the morrow;
'This made me mourn my rich repast,
' And wish I had not fed so fast.'

Quoth Jack, 'I was not such a dunce;

'To eat my quantum up at once;

And, tho' the boys all long'd to clutch 'em,

'I would not let a creature touch 'em ;

'Nor, tho' the whole were in my pow'r,

'Would I one single cake devour ;