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The humble lily spares. A thousand blows,
That shake the lofty monarch on his throne,
We lesser folks feel not. Keen are the pains
Advancement often brings. To be secure,
Be huinble; to be happy, be content.

But come, we loiter. Pass unnotic'd by
The sleepy Crocus, and the staring Daisy,
The courtier of the sun. What see we there?
The lovesick Cowslip, that her head inclines,
To hide a bleeding heart. And here's the meek
And soft-ey'd Primrose. Dandelion this,
A college youth, that flashes for a day
All gold; anon he doffs his gaudy suit,
Touch'd by the magic hand of some grave bishop,
And all at once, by commutation strange,
Becomes a Reverend Divine.

Then mark
The melancholy Hyacinth, that weeps
All night, and never lifts an eye all day.

How gay this meadow-like a gamesome boy
New cloth'd, his locks fresh comb'd and powder'd, he
All health and spirits. Scarce so many stars
Shine in the azure canopy of Heav'n,
As kingcups here are scatter'd, interspers'd
With silver daisies.

See, the toiling swain With many a sturdy stroke cuts up at last The tough and sinewy furze. How hard he fought, To win the glory of the barren waste ! For what more noble than the vernal furze With golden baskets hung? Approach it not, For ev'ry blossom has a troop of swords Drawn to defend it. "Tis the treasury Of Fays and Fairies. Here they nightly meet, Each with a burnish a kingcup in his hand, And quaff the subtile ether. Here they dance Or to the village chimes, or moody song Of midnight Philomel. The ringlet see Fantastically trod. There Oberon his gallant train leads out, the while his torch

The glowworm liglits, and dusky night illumes ;
And there they foot it featly round, and laugh.
The sacred spot the superstitious ewe
Regards, and bites it not in reverence.
Anon the drowsy clock tolls One

the cock
His clarion sounds--the dance breaks off-the lights
Are quench'd--the music hush'd—they speed away
Swifter than thought, and still the break of day
Outrun, and chasing Midnight as she flies,
Pursue her round the globe. So Fancy weaves
Her flimsy web, while sober Reason sits,
And smiling wonders at the puny work,
A net for her; then springs on eagle wing,
Constraint defies, and soars above the sun.

But mark with how peculiar grace yon wood,
That clothes the weary steep, waves in the breeze
Her sea of leaves; thither we turn our steps,
And by the way attend the cheerful sound
Of woodland harmony, that always fills
The merry vale between. How sweet the song
Day's harbinger attunes ! I have not beard
Such elegant divisions drawn from art.
And what is he that wins our admiration ?
A little speck that floats upon the sunbeam.
What vast perfection cannot Nature crowd
Into a puny point! The nightingale,
Her solo anthem sung, and all that heard,
Content, joins in the chorus of the day,
She, gentle heart, thinks it no pain to please,
Nor, like the moody songsters of the world,
Just shows her talent, pleases, takes affropt,
And locks it up in envy.

I love to see the little goldfinch pluck
The groundsel's feather'd seed, and twit, and twit;
And then, in bow'r cf apple blossoms perch'd,
Trim his gay suit, and pay us with a song:
I would not hold him pris'ner for the world.

The chimney haunting swallow, too, my eye
And ear well pleases. I delight to see
How suddenly be skims the glassy pool,

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How quaintly dips, and with a bullet's speed
Whisks by. I love to be awake, and hear
His morning song twitter'd to young-ey'd day.

But most of all it wins my admiration,
To view the structure of this little work,
A bird's nest. Mark it well, within, without.
No tool had he that wrought, no knife to cut,
No pail to fix, no bodkin to insert,

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No glue to join ; his little beak was all.
And yet how neatly finish’d. What nice hand,
With ev'ry implement and means of art,
And twenty years' apprenticeship to boot,
Could make me such another? Fondly then
We boast of excellence, whose noblest skill
Instinctive genius foils.

The bee observe;
She too an artist is, and laughs at man,
Who calls on rules the sightly hexagon
With truth to form ; a cunning architect,
That at the roof begins her golden work,
And builds without foundation, How she toils,
And still from bud to bud, from flow'r to flow'r,
Travels the livelong day. Ye idle drones,
That rather pilfer than your bread obtain
By honest means like these, look here and learn
How good, brow fair, how honourable 'tis,

try. The busy tribes
Of bees so emulous are daily fed
With Heav'n's peculiar manna. 'Tis for them,
Unwearied alchymists, the blooming world
Nectarious gold distils. And bounteous Heav'n,
Still to the diligent and active good,
Their very labour makes the certain cause
Of future wealth.

But see, the setting Sun
Puts on a milder countenance, and skirts
The undulated clouds, that cross his way,
With glory visible. His axle cools,
And his broad disk, though fervent, not intense,

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Foretells the near approach of matron night.
Ye fair, retreat! Your drooping flowers need
Wholesome refreshment. Down the hedge-row path
We basten home, and only slack our speed
To gaze a moment at th' accustom'd gap,
That all so unexpectedly presents
The clear cerulean prospect down the vale.
Dispers'd along the bottom flocks and herds,
Hay-ricks and cottages, beside a stream,
That silverly meanders here and there ;
And higher up corn-fields, and pastures, hops,
And waving woods, and tufts, and lonely oaks,
Thick interspers'd as Nature best was pleas'd.

Happy the man, who truly loves his home,
And never wanders fartlier from his door,
Than we have gone to day; who feels his heart
Still drawing homeward, and delights, like us,
Once more to rest liis foot on his own threshold.

HURDIS,

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BOOK VIII.

Pathetic Pieces.

CHAP. I.

THE STORY OF LE FEVRE.

1

was some time in the summer of that year in which Dendermond was taken by the allies, which was about seven years before my father came into the country, and about as inany after the time that my incle Toby and Trim had privately decamped from my father's house in town, in order to lay some of the finest sieges to some of the finest fortified cities in Europe-when niy uncle Toby was one evening getting his supper, with Trim sitting behind him at a small sideboard. The landlord of a little im in the village came into the parlour with an empty phial in his land, to heg a glass or two of sack--"Tis for a poor gentleman-I think of the army, said the landlord, who has been taken ill at my liouse four days ago, and has never held up his head since, or had a desire to taste any thing, till just now, that he has a fancy for a glass of sack and a thin toast I think, says he, taking his hand from his forehead, it would comfort me.

-If I could neither beg, borrow, or buy such a thing, added the landlord, I would almost steal it for the poor gentleman, he is so ill. I hope in God he will still mend, continued he,

-We are all of us concerned for him. Thou art a good-natured soul, I will answer for thee, cried my uncle Toby; and thou shalt drink the poor gentleman's

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