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“But they are dead ; those two are dead !
Their spirits are in heaven ?"
'Twas throwing words away : for still
The little Maid would have her will
And said, “Nay, we are seven !".

THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS. FRIENDSHIP, like love, is but a name, Unless to one you stint the flame. The child whom many fathers share, Hath seldom known a father's care ; 'Tis thus in friendships; who depend On many, rarely find a friend.

A Hare, who in a civil way,
Comply'd with every thing, they say,
Was known by all the bestial train
Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain.
Her care was never to offend,
And ev'ry creature was her friend.

As forth she went at early dawn,
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn,
Behind she hears the hunter's cries,
And from the deep mouth'd thunder flies;
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath ;
She hears the near advance of death;
She doubles to mislead the hound,
And measures back her mazy round;
Till, fainting in the public way,
Half-dead with fear she gasping lay.

What transport in her busom grew,
When first the Horse appear'd in view !

“ Let me," says she, “ your back ascend, “ And owe my safety to a friend ; “ You know my feet betray my flight; “To friendship every burden's light.

The horse reply'd,“ poor

honest puss, “ It grieves my heart to see thee thus; “ Be comforted, relief is near, “For all your friends are in the rear."

She next the stately Bull implor’d; And thus reply'd the mighty lord : “Since every beast alive can tell " That I sincerely wish you well, "I may, without offence, pretend " To take the freedom of a friend; Love calls me hence; a fav’rite cow “ Expects me near yon barley-mow; And when a lady's in the case, “ You know, all other things give place. To leave you thus might seem unkind ; “ But see the Goat is just behind.”

The Goat remark’d, her pulse was high, Her languid head, her heavy eye ; “My back," says she," may

do
you

harm; “ The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm.'

The Sheep was feeble, and complain'd
His sides a load of wool sustain'd;
Said he was slow, confess'd his fears;
For hounds eat sheep, as well as Hares.

She now the trotting Calf address'd,
To save from death a friend distress'd.

“ Shall I,” says he “ of tender age, “In this important care engage ? “ Older and abler pass'd you by! “How strong are those ! how weak am I! “ Should I presume to bear you hence, “ Those friends of mine may take offence. “ Excuse me, then. You know my

heart; " But dearest friends, alas! must part: “ How shall we all lament! Adieu ! For see, the hounds are just in view.”

FATHERLESS FANNY.

Keen and cold is the blast loudly whistling around:

As cold are the lips that once smiled upon me; And unyielding, alas ! as this hard frozen ground,

The arms once so ready my shelter to be. Both my parents are dead, and few friends I can boast, But few to console and to love me, if

any; And my gains are so small, a bare pittance at most

Repays the exertions of Fatherless Fanny. Once indeed I with pleasure and patience could toil,

But 'twas when my parents sat by and approved ; Then

my

laces to sell I went out with a smile, Because my fatigue fed the parents I loved. And at night, when I brought them my hardly-earn'd

gains, Though small they might be, still my comforts were

many; For my mother's fond blessing rewarded my pains,

My father stood watching to welcome his Fanny. But, ah! now that I work by their presence uncheer'd,

I feel 'tis a hardship indeed to be poor,
While I shrink from the labour no longer endear'd,

And sigh as I knock at the wealthy man's door.
Then, alas ! when at night I returned to my home,

No longer I boast that my comforts are many;
To a silent, deserted, dark dwelling I come,
Where no one exclaims, 66 Thou art welcome, my

Fanny.”
That, that is the pang: want and toil would impart

No pang to my breast, if kind friends I could see ; For the wealth I require is that of the heart,

The smiles of affection are riches to me.
Then, ye wealthy, O think, when to you I apply,

To purchase my goods, though you do not buy any, If in accents of kindness you deign to deny,

You'll comfort the heart of poor Fatherless Fanny.

THE POET AND THE ROSE.

And every

I hate the man who builds his name
On ruins of another's fame.
Thus prudes by characters o'erthrown,
Imagine that they raise their own.
Thus scribblers, covetous of praise,
Think slander can transplant the bays.
Beauties and Bards have equal pride;
With both all rivals are decry’d.
Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature,
Must call her sister awkward creature;
For the kind flattery's sure to charm,
When we some other nymph disarm.

As in the cool of early day,
A Poet sought the sweets of May,
The garden's fragrant breath ascends,

stalk with vdour berids;
A Rose he plucked, he gaz'd, admir'd,
Thus singing as the Muse inspir’d,
“Go, Rose, my Chloe's bosom grace :

“ How happy should I prove, “ Might I supply that envy'd place,

“ With never-fading love! “There, phenix-like, beneath her eye, “ Involv'd in fragrance, burn and die.

Know, hapless flower ! that thou shalt find

More fragrant Roses there : " I see thy withering head reclin'd,

“ With envy and despair ! “ One common fate we both must prove; “ You die with envy, I with love.

“Spare your comparisons," reply'd An angry Rose, who grew beside; " Of all mankind you should not flout us; " What can a Poet do without us? In every love-song Roses bloom ; “We lend you colour and perfume :

6

“ Does it to Chloe's charms conduce,
To found her praise on our abuse ?
"Must we, to flatter her, be made
To wither, envy, pine, and fade ?

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,

Cries, “ Boatman, do not tarry !
And I'll give thee a silver pound,

To row us o'er the ferry.”-
Now, who be

ye

would cross Loch-Gyle, This dark and stormy water ?" “O! I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter ;And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together, “ For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather. " His horsemen hard behind us ride ;

Should they our steps discover, " Then who will cheer my bonny bride,

When they have slain her lover?”– Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,

“I'll go, my chief-I'm ready : “ It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady:
“ And, by my word ! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry ;
So, though the waves are raging white-

I'll row you o'er the ferry!"-
By
this the storm grew

loud

apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And, in the scowl of heaven, each face

Grew dark as they were speaking.

B

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