6

'Thanks to the use of keys and locks,

They're all now snug within my box: "The mischief is, by hoarding long,

6

They're grown so mouldy and so strong,
I find they wo'n't be fit to eat,

'And I have lost my Father's treat.'
'Well, Tom,' the anxious Parent cries,
'How did you manage?' Tom replies,
'I shunn'd each wide extreme to take,
To glut my maw, or hoard my Cake;
'I thought each day its wants would have,
And appetite again might crave;
'Twelve school-days still my notches counted,
To twelve my Father's cakes amounted;
'So ev'ry day I took but one,
'But never ate my Cake alone;

• With ev'ry needy boy I shar'd,

• And more than half I always spar'd.

One ev'ry day, 'twixt self and friend,

'Has brought my dozen to an end:

My last-remaining Cake, to-day;

'I would not touch, but gave away; 'A boy was sick, and scarce could eat, To him it prov'd a welcome treat: 'Jack call'd me spendthrift not to save; . Will dubb'd me fool because I gave; 'But, when our last day came, I smil'd ; 'For Will's were gone, and Jack's were spoil'd: 'Not hoarding much, nor eating fast,

'I serv'd a needy friend at last.'.

- These tales the Father's thoughts employ,

By these,' said he, I know each boy;

'Yet Jack, who hoarded what he had, The world will call a frugal lad;

And selfish, gormandising Will

'Will meet with friends and fav'rers still:
'While moderate Tom, so wise and cool,
'The mad and vain will deem a fool :
But I, his sober plan approve,
'And Tom has gain'd his Father's love.'

So, when our day of life is past,
And all are fairly judg'd at last,
The miser and the sensual find
How each misus'd the gifts assign'd:
While he, who wisely spends and gives,
To the true ends of living lives;
'Tis self-denying moderation

Gains the GREAT FATHER'S approbation.

FABLE LXI..

THE TWO WEAVERS;

OR, TURN THE CARPET.

By Mrs. Hannah More.

As at their work two Weavers sat, Beguiling time with friendly chat; They touch'd upon the price of meat, So high, a Weaver scarce could eat: 'What with my brats and sickly wife," Quoth Dick, 'I'm almost tir'd of life; 'So hard my work, so poor my fare, "Tis more than mortal man can bear. 'How glorious is the rich man's state! His house so fine! his wealth so great! • Heav'n is unjust you must agree, 'Why all to him? why none to me? "In spite of all the Scripture teaches, 'In spite of all the Parson preaches, "This world (indeed I've thought so long) Is rul'd, methinks, extremely wrong. 'Where'er I look, howe'er I range, 'Tis all confus'd, and hard, and strange; The good are troubled and oppress'd, And all the wicked are the bless'd.'

Quoth John: Our ignorance is the cause "Why thus we blame our Maker's laws;

2

'Parts of his ways alone we know,

"Tis all that man can see below.

'Seest thou that Carpet, not half done,
'Which thou, Dear Dick, hast well begun?

• Behold the wild confusion there,

'So rude the mass it makes one stare! 'A stranger, ign'rant of the trade,

'Would say, no meaning's there convey'd ;

'For where's the middle, where's the border? Thy Carpet now is all disorder.'

Quoth Dick, My work is yet in bits, 'But still in ev'ry part it fits;

'Besides, you reason like a lout,
'Why, man, that Carpet's inside out.'

Says John, Thou say'st the thing I mean, And now I hope to cure thy spleen;

This world which clouds thy soul with doubt, 'Is but a Carpet inside out.

'As, when we view those shreds and ends,
'We know not what the whole intends;
'So, when on earth things look but odd,
They're working still some scheme of God.
No plan, no pattern can we trace,
All wants proportion, truth and grace;
The motley mixture we deride,

• Nor see the beauteous upper side.
'But, when we reach that world of light,
'And view those works of God aright,
⚫ Then shall we see the whole design,
'And own the workman is divine.

'What now seem random strokes, will there All order and design appear;

'Then shall we praise what here we spurn'd, 'For then the Carpet shall be turn’d.'

'Thou'rt right,' quoth Dick, no more I'll grumble,

That this sad world's so strange a jumble;

• My impious doubts are put to flight, For my own Carpet sets me right.'

FABLE LXII.

THE PLAGUE AMONG THE BEASTS;

OR, THE FOX MADE JUDGE.

By Charles Dibdin, the Younger *.

I MENTION just at our outsetting,
Alfred invented juries; not forgetting

That, were the judgment rested in one breast,
Some prejudice might start, and justice wrest
From her pure course; for artful mind

On reasoning oft has much refin'd;

For propositions found pretence

Built on sophisticated sense;

From his Beautiful Metrical Romance of Young Arthur.