Discours'd awhile, 'mongst other matter,
Of the Cameleon's form and nature.
'A stranger animal,' cries one,
'Sure never liv'd beneath the sun!
A lizard's body, lean and long,
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue,
Its foot with triple claw disjoin'd;
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,
"Tis green,—I saw it with these eyes,
As late with open mouth it lay,
And warm'd it in the sunny ray;
Stretch'd at its ease the beast I view'd,
And saw it eat the air for food.'
'I've seen it, friend, as well as you,
And must again affirm it blue.
At leisure I the beast survey'd,
Extended in the cooling shade.'

""Tis green, 'tis green, I can assure ye.’— 'Green!' cries the other in a fury'Why, do you think, I've lost my eyes? "Twere no great loss,' the friend replies, 'For, if they always serve you thus, You'll find them but of little use." So high at last the contest rose, From words they almost came to blows: When luckily came by a thirdTo him the question they referr'd; And begg'd he'd tell 'em, if he knew, Whether the thing was green or blue.

Come,' cries the umpire, 'cease your pother,

The creature's neither one nor t'other:

I caught the animal last night,
And view'd it o'er by candle-light:
I mark'd it well-'twas black as jet-
You stare-but I have got it yet,
And can produce it.' 'Pray then do:
For I am sure the thing is blue.'
'And I'll engage that when you've seen
The reptile, you'll pronounce him green.'
'Well then, at once, to ease the doubt,'
Replies the man, 'I'll turn him out:
And when before your eyes I've set him,
If you don't find him black, I'll eat him.'
He said; then full before their sight
Produc'd the beast, and lo-'twas white!
Both star'd; the man look'd wondrous wise—
'My children,' the Cameleon cries

(Then first the creature found a tongue),
You all are right, and all are wrong:
When next you talk of what you view,
Think others see as well as you:
Nor wonder, if you find that none
Prefers your eye-sight to his own,'

Merrick.

THE FATE OF A GENTLEMAN JOCKEY. POOR Jack-no matter who-for when I blame, I pity, and must therefore sink the name, Liv'd in his saddle, lov'd the chase, the course, And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse. The estate, his sires had own'd in ancient years, Was quickly distanc'd, match'd against a peer's.. Jack vanish'd, was regretted and forgot; 'Tis wild good nature's never-failing lot.

At length, when all had long suppos'd him dead,
By cold submersion, razor, rope, or lead,
My lord, alighting at his usual place,
The Crown, took notice of an ostler's face.
Jack knew his friend, but hop'd in that disguise
He might escape the most observing eyes,
And whistling, as if unconcern'd and gay,
Curried his nag, and look'd another way.
Convinc'd at last, upon a nearer view,
'Twas he, the same, the very Jack he knew,
O'erwhelm'd at once with wonder, grief, and joy,
He press'd him much to quit his base employ;
His countenance, his purse, his heart, his hand,
Influence and pow'r, were all at his command:
Peers are not always gen'rous as well-bred,
But Granby was, meant truly what he said.
Jack bow'd, and was oblig'd-confess'd 'twas
strange,

That so retir'd he should not wish a change,
But knew no medium between guzzling beer,
And his old stint-three thousand pounds a year.

Cowper.

THE CIT'S RETIREMENT.

SUBURBAN villas, highway-side retreats,
That dread th' encroachment of our growing streets,
Tight boxes, neatly sash'd, and in a blaze
With all a July sun's collected rays,

Delight the citizen, who, gasping there,
Breathes clouds of dust, and calls it country air.
O sweet retirement, who would balk the thought,
That could afford retirement, or could not?

"Tis such an easy walk, so smooth and straight,
The second milestone fronts the garden gate;
A step if fair, and, if a show'r approach,
You find safe shelter in the next stage-coach.
There, prison'd in a parlour snug and small,
Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall,
The man of business and his friends compress'd
Forget their labours, and yet find no rest;
But still 'tis rural-trees are to be seen
From every window, and the fields are green;
Ducks paddle in the pond before the door,
And what could a remoter scene show more?
A sense of elegance we rarely find

The portion of a mean or vulgar mind,
And ignorance of better things makes man,
Who cannot much, rejoice in what he can;
And he, that deems his leisure well bestow'd
In contemplation of a turnpike road,
Is occupied as well, employs his hours
As wisely, and as much improves his pow'rs,
As he, that slumbers in pavilions grac❜d
With all the charms of an accomplish'd taste.
Yet hence, alas! insolvencies; and hence
Th' unpitied victim of ill-judg'd expense,
From all his wearisome engagements freed,
Shakes hands with business, and retires indeed.
Cowper.

THE CIT'S COUNTRY BOX.

THE wealthy Cit, grown old in trade,

Now wishes for the rural shade,

And buckles to his one-horse chair,

Old Dobbin, or the founder'd mare;

While wedg'd in closely by his side,
Sits madam, his unwieldy bride,
With Jacky on a stool before 'em,
And out they jog in due decorum.
Scarce past the turnpike half a mile,
How all the country seems to smile!
And as they slowly jog together,
The Cit commends the road and weather;
While madam dotes upon the trees,
And longs for every house she sees,
Admires its views, its situation,
And thus she opens her oration:
'What signify the loads of wealth,
Without that richest jewel health?
Excuse the fondness of a wife,
Who dotes upon your precious life!
Such ceaseless toil, such constant care,
Is more than human strength can bear.
One may observe it in your face-
Indeed, my dear, you brake apace:
And nothing can your health repair,
But exercise and country air.
Sir Traffic has a house, you know,
About a mile from Cheney-Row;
He's a good man, indeed, 'tis true,
But not so warm, my dear, as you:
And folks are always apt to sneer—
One would not be outdone, my dear!'
Sir Traffic's name so well applied
Awak'd his brother merchant's pride;
And Thrifty, who had all his life
Paid utmost deference to his wife,
Confess'd her arguments had reason,
And by th' approaching summer season,