Can the whole field a plant display,

So rich, so noble, and so gay?"

Yes," said the next, "the flow'r I show,
With star-like rays, and sky-like blue,

So much does your dull plant outshine,
That the best choice is surely mine."

"Stop," said the third, "the flow'r I hold, With cluster'd leaves of burnish'd gold, Than your's or his, is richer drest;

The choice I've made, is doubtless best."
In this, however, each agreed,
That nothing could his own exceed;
And that the rising blades of green,
Did not deserve to grow between.

A farmer chanc'd behind the gate -
To overhear the youths' debate:
Knowing from ign'rance error springs,
He strove to teach them better things.

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My lads," he said, "now understand, These are but weeds that spoil our land; But the green blades you trample down, Are wheat, man's food, and nature's crown, With art and pains the crop is sown, And thus your daily bread is grown. Alas! your judgment was not right, Because you judg'd from outward sight."

SECTION XI.

Economy the source of charity.

By gen'rous goodness taught, my early youth
Soon learn'd humanity. My parents died.
Orphans have claims on charitable souls ;
The pious Edgar thought so: mov'd, perhaps,
By the soft eloquence of infant tears,
Perchance by nature prompted, to his roof
He led the fatherless.-It was the seat
Of nuptial happiness; a rustic cot,

Small, yet convenient, for their wants were few:
And Edgar, knowing what all men should learn,
Was with his lot contented. Happy state!
Labour he plied for exercise, not gain.

At early dawn, he led me to the field;

And, drawing morals from each task he took,
Told me, "That ev'ry seed, well sown on earth,

Would yield full harvest in that awful day,
When all arrears of labour shall be paid;

Each well-meant toil rewarded."-Once, perchance,
1 found him busied near a murmʼring rill :

To various little streams he turn'd its source,

Where, wand'ring devious through his neat-dress'd grounds,

It cheer'd the green copse, fill'd the earing corn,
Then trickled gently through the perfum'd grove.

"Mark well, my child," he said;

"this little stream

Shall teach thee charity. It is a source

I never knew to fail; directed thus

Be that soft stream, the fountain of thy heart.
For oh! my much lov'd child, I trust thy heart
Has those affections that shall bless thyself;
And flowing softly, like this little rill,

Cheer all that droop."-The good man did not err :
The milk of human kindness warm'd my breast;
Young as I was, I felt for others' woes,

And, when I could, reliev'd them.-Yet I was young!
And having lavish'd all my infant store
In gewgaw toys, and childish fooleries,

I do remember well, a vet'ran old,

Maim'd and disfigur'd by the hand of war,
Implor'd my charity. I felt, alas!

His various wants,-sore, sick, and wan, he seem'd:

My little heart bled at each wound he show'd.
Alas! alas! replied my infant thoughts,

And shall want cloud the ev'ning of his days,
Whose noon of life was toil ?-And then I wept.-

It was the first time that I e'er knew want:

I was indeed a bankrupt. Edgar came.

I

wept, but spoke not; for my heart was full. "What wilt thou give, my boy?"-Fearing a lie, I sobb'd out truth most sadly. Edgar felt; Pardon'd my folly; (for he lov'd my tears ;) And gave what sooth'd the poor man's misery. But, in our ev'ning's walk, behold! the stream

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Was dry. I ask'd the cause." Mark me, my child!
This rill, I told thee oft, through all thy life
Should teach thee charity.-Now let it teach,
If yet thou hast to learn, that the bless'd source
Of lib'ral deeds, is wise Economy.

This morn, like thee, I drew the stream too fast:
Now-when the parch'd glebe wants its wat'ry aid,
The source is all exhausted."

CHAPTER III.

DIDACTIC PIECES.

SECTION I.

To some children listening to a lark.

SEE, the lark prunes his active wings,
Rises to heav'n, and soars, and sings!
His morning hymns, his mid-day lays,
Are one continued song of praise.
He speaks his Maker all he can,
And shames the silent tongue of man.
When the declining orb of light
Reminds him of approaching night,
His warbling vespers swell his breast,
And as he sings, he sinks to rest.
Shall birds instructive lessons teach,
And we be deaf to what they preach?
No, ye dear nestlings of my heart;
Go, act the wiser songster's part:
Spurn your warm couch at early dawn,
And with your God begin the morn.
To him your grateful tribute pay,
Through ev'ry period of the day.