Scorned bramble of the brake! once moro
Thou bidd'st me be a boy,

To gad with thee the woodlands o'er,
In freedom and in joy.

CCXCIX. REGINALD HEBER, 1783-1826.
1. THE SEASONS.

When Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil;

When Summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's toil; When Winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the flood ;

In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his Maker good. The birds that wake the morning, and those that love the shade,

The winds that sweep the mountain or lull the drowsy glade;

The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his way, The moon and stars, their Master's name in silent pomp display.

Shall man, the lord of Nature, expectant of the sky,
Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny ?
No, let the year forsake his course, the seasons cease to be,
Thee, Master, must we always love, and, Saviour, honour
Thee.

The flowers of Spring may wither, the hope of Summer fade,

The Autumn droop in Winter, the birds forsake the

shade;

The winds be lull'd-the sun and moon forget their old decree,

But we in Nature's latest hour, O Lord! will cling to Thee.

2. JUDEA.

O feeble boast of transitory power!

Vain, fruitless trust of Judah's happier hour!

Not such their hope, when through the parted main
The cloudy wonder led the warrior train:

Not such their hope when through the fields of night
The torch of heaven diffus'd its friendly light:

Not, when fierce Conquest urg'd the onward war,
And hurl'd stern Canaan from his iron car;
Nor, when five monarchs led to Gibeon's fight,
In rude array, the harness'd Amorite :
Yes-in that hour, by mortal accents stay'd,
The lingering Sun his fiery wheels delay'd;
The Moon, obedient, trembled at the sound,
Curb'd her pale car, and check'd her mazy round!
Let Sinai tell-for she beheld his might,
And God's own darkness veil'd her mystic height.
(He, cherub-born, upon the whirlwind rode,
And the red mountain, like a furnace glow'd :)
Let Sinai tell-but who shall dare recite
His praise, his power,-eternal, infinite ?-
Awe-struck, I cease; nor bid my strains aspire,
Or serve his altar with unhallow'd fire.

3. HYMN.

From Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strand,
Where Afric's sunny fountains

Roll down their golden sand;

From many an ancient river,
From many a balmy plain,
They call us to deliver

Their land from error's chain.

What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft on Ceylon's isle,
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile;
In vain with lavish kindness,
The gifts of God are strown,
The heathen, in his blindness,

Bows down to wood and stone.
Shall we whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high,
Shall we to man benighted
The lamp of life deny?
Salvation! oh, Salvation!
The joyful sound proclaim,

Till each remotest nation
Has learnt Messiah's name.
Waft, waft, ye winds, his story i
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till, like a sea of glory,

It spreads from pole to pole!
Till o'er our ransom'd nature
The lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign.

CCC. JANE TAYLOR, 1783-1824.

THE POOR FLY.

too high;

So, so, you are running away, Mr Fly,
But I'll come at you now, if you don't go
There, there, I have caught you, you can't get away:
Never mind, my old fellow, I'm only in play.

Oh Charles! cruel Charles! you have kill'd the poor
You have pinch'd him so hard, he is going to die:
His legs are all broken, and he cannot stand;
There, now he is fallen down dead in your hand!
I hope you are sorry for what you have done :
You may kill many flies, but you cannot make one.
No, you can't set it up, as I told you before,
It is dead, and it never will stand any more.

fly,

Poor thing as it buzz'd up and down on the glass,
How little it thought what was coming to pass!
For it could not have guessed, as it frisk'd in the sun,
That a child would destroy it for nothing but fun.
The spider, who weaves his fine cobweb so neat,
Might have caught him, indeed, for he wants him to eat;
But the poor flies must learn to keep out of your way,
As you kill them for nothing at all but your play.

CCCI. ANN TAYLOR, 178*-18**.

A VERY SORROWFUL STORY.

I'll tell you a story, come, sit on my knee;
A true and a pitiful one it shall be,
About an old man, and a poor man was he.

He'd a fine merry boy, (such another as you,)
And he did for him all that a father could do:
For he was a kind father as ever I knew.

So he hoped that, one day, when his darling should grow
A fine hearty man, he'd remember, you know,
To thank his old father for loving him so.

But what do you think came of all this at last?
Why, after a great many years had gone past,
And the good-natured father grew old very fast;
Instead of rememb'ring how kind he had been,
This boy did not care for his father a pin,
But bade him begone, for he should not come in!

So he wander'd about in the frost and the snow!
For he had not a place in the world where to go:
And you'd almost have cried to have heard the wind blow.

And the tears, poor old man, oh! how fast they did pour:
As he shiver'd with cold at his wicked child's door.
Did you ever, now, hear such a story before ?

CCCII. LEIGH HUNT, 1784-1859.

1. THE HORSE.

A noble horse,

With flowing back, firm chest, and fetlocks clean,
The branching veins ridging the glossy lean,
The mane hung sleekly, the projecting eye
That to the stander-near looks awfully,
The finish'd head in its compactness free,
Small and o'er-arching to the bended knee,
The start and snatch, as if he felt the comb,
With mouth that flings about the creamy foam,
The snorting turbulence, the nod, the champing,
The shift, the tossing, and the fiery tramping.

2. THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.

King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;

The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their

side,

And 'mongst them sat the count de Lorge, with one for whom he sigh'd.

And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,

Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;

With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled on one another,

Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thund'rous smother;

The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air:

Said Francis then, " Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."

Delorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame,

With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same;

She thought, The count, my lover, is brave as brave can be

He surely would do wondrous things to show his love

of me:

King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine,I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be

mine.

She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled;

He bowed and in a moment leaped among the lions wild : The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained

the place,

Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.

"By God!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat,

"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that!"