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There is a book, which we may call

(Its excellence is such) Alone a library, though small;

The ladies thumb it much.
Words none, things numerous it contains :

And things with words compared,
Who needs be told, that has his brains,

Which merits most regard ?
Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue

A golden edging boast;
And open'd, it displays to view

at the most.
Nor name nor title, stamp'd behind,

Adorns its outer part ;
But all within 'tis richly lined,

A magazine of art.
The whitest hands that secret hoard

Oft visit: and the fair
Preserve it in their bosoms stored,

As with a miser's care. Thence implements of every size,

, And form’d for various use, (They need but to consult their eyes)

They readily produce.

The largest and the longest kind

Possess the foremost page, A sort most needed by the blind,

Or nearly such from age.
The full charg'd leaf, which next ensues,

Presents in bright array
The smaller sort, which matrons use,

Not quite so blind as they.
The third, the fourth, the fifth supply

What their occasions ask,
Who with a more discerning eye

Perform a nicer task.

But still with regular decrease

From size to size they fall,
In every


less and less;
The last are least of all.
O! what a fund of genius, pent

In narrow space is here ! This volume's method and intent

How luminous and clear.

It leaves no reader at a loss

Or posed, whoever reads : No commentator's tedious gloss,

Nor even index needs.
Search Bodley's many thousands o'er !

No book is treasured there,
Nor yet in Granta's numerous store,

with this compare.

No!-rival none in either host

Of this was ever seen,
Or, that contents could justly boast,

So brilliant and so keen.


A NEEDLE, small as small can be,
In bulk and use surpasses me,

Nor is my purchase dear;
For little, and almost for nought,
As many of my kind are bought

As days are in the year.
Yet though but little use we boast,
And are procured at little cost,

The labour is not light;
Nor few artificers it asks,
All skilful in their several tasks,

To fashion us aright.
One fuses metal o'er the fire,
A second draws it into wire,

The sheers another plies;
Who clips in length the brazen thread
For him who, chafing every shred,

Gives all an equal size.
A fifth prepares, exact and round,
The knob with which it must be crown'd;

His follower makes it fast:

And with his mallet and his file
To shape the point, employs awhile

The seventh and the last.

Now therefore, Edipus! declare
What creature, wonderful, and rare,


that obtains Its

purpose with so much ado At last produces !—tell me true,

And take me for your pains !



NONE ever shared the social feast,
Or as an inmate or a guest,
Beneath the celebrated dome
Where once Sir Isaac had his home,
Who saw not (and with some delight
Perhaps he view'd the novel sight)
How numerous, at the tables there,
The sparrows beg their daily fare.
For there, in every nook and cell
Where such a family may dwell,
Sure as the vernal season comes
Their nest they weave in hope of crumbs,
Which kindly given, may serve with food
Convenient their unfeather'd brood;
And oft as with its summons clear
The warning bell salutes their ear,

Sagacious listeners to the sound,
They flock from all the fields around,
To reach the hospitable hall,
None more attentive to the call.
Arrived, the pensionary band,
Hopping and chirping, close at hand,
Solicit what they soon receive,
The sprinkled, plenteous donative.
Thus is a multitude, though large,
Supported at a trivial charge :
A single doit would overpay
The expenditure of every day,
And who can grudge so small a grace
To suppliants, natives of the place ?


As in her ancient mistress' lap

The youthful tabby lay,
They gave each other many a tap,

Alike disposed to play.
But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm,

And with protruted claws Ploughs all the length of Lydia's arm,

Mere wantonness the cause.

At once, resentful of the deed,

She shakes her to the ground With many a threat that she shall bleed

With still a deeper wound.

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