AVINIA once had friends,
And Fortune smiled deceit-
ful on her birth;
For in her helpless years

deprived of all,

Of every stay, save inno

cence and Heaven, She with her widowed mother-feeble, old

And poor lived in a cottage far retired

Among the windings of a
woody vale,

By solitude and deep-surrounding shades,
But more by bashful modesty, concealed.
Together thus they shunned the cruel scorn
Which virtue sunk to poverty would meet
From giddy passion and low-minded pride,
Almost on Nature's common bounty fed,
Like the gay birds that
them to repose
sung
Content and careless of to-morrow's fare.

Her form was fresher than the morning rose When the dew wets its leaves, unstained and pure

As is the lily or the mountain snow.
The modest virtues mingled in her eyes,
Still on the ground dejected, darting all
Their humid beams into the blooming
flowers;

Or when the mournful tale her mother told
Of what her faithless fortune promised once
Thrilled in her thought, they, like the dewy

star

grace

Of evening, shone in tears. A native
Sat fair-proportioned on her polished limbs,
Veiled in a simple robe, their best attire,
Beyond the pomp of dress; for loveliness
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
But is, when unadorned, adorned the most;
Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beauty's self,
Recluse amid the close-embowering woods.
As in the hollow breast of Apennine,
Beneath the shelter of encircling hills,
A myrtle rises, far from human eye,
And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the
wild,

So flourished blooming and unseen by all
The sweet Lavinia, till, at length, compelled
By strong Necessity's supreme command,
With smiling patience in her looks she went
To glean Palemon's fields.

The pride of swains Palemon was, the generous and the rich, Who led the rural life in all its joy And elegance, such as Arcadian song Transmits from ancient uncorrupted times, When tyrant Custom had not shackled man, But free to follow Nature was the mode. He, then, his fancy with autumnal scene Amusing, chanced beside his reaper-train To walk, when Lavinia drew his eye, poor Unconscious of her power, and, turning quick With unaffected blushes from his gaze, He saw her charming, but he saw not half The charms her downcast modesty concealed. That very moment love and chaste desire

Sprung in his bosom, to himself unknown; For still the world prevailed, and its dread laugh,

Which scarce the firm philosopher can scorn, Should his heart own a gleaner in the field, And thus in secret to his soul he sighed :

What pity that so delicate a form, By beauty kindled, where enlivening sense And more than vulgar goodness seems to dwell,

Should be devoted to the rude embrace

Of some indecent clown! She looks, methink,

Of old Acasto's line, and to my mind
Recalls that patron of my happy life,
From whom my liberal fortune took its rise,
Now to the dust gone down, his houses, lands
And once fair-spreading family dissolved.
'Tis said that in some lone obscure retreat,
Urged by remembrance sad and decent pride,
Far from those scenes which knew their bet-
ter days,

His aged widow and his daughter live, Whom yet my fruitless search could never find.

Her rising beauties flushed a higher bloors, And thus Palemon, passionate and just, Poured out the pious rapture of his soul:

"And art thou, then, Acasto's dear remains-She whom my restless gratitude has sought So long in vain? O heavens! the very

same

The softened image of my noble friend
Alive, his every look, his every feature,
More elegantly touched. Sweeter than spring,
Thou sole surviving blossom from the root
That nourished up my fortune, say, ah where,
In what sequestered desert, hast thou drawn
The kindest aspect of delighted Heaven,
Into such beauty spread and blown so fair,
Though poverty's cold wind and crushing

rain

Beat keen and heavy on thy tender years?
Oh, let me now into a richer soil
Transplant thee safe, where vernal suns and
showers

Diffuse their warmest, largest influence,
And of my garden be the pride and joy!
Ill it befits thee, oh it ill befits
Acasto's daughter-his whose open stores,

When, strict inquiring, from herself he found
She was the same, the daughter of his friend,
Of bountiful Acasto, who can speak
The mingled passions that surprised his heart
And through his nerves in shivering trans-
port ran?

Then blazed his smothered flame, avowed and bold;

And as he viewed her, ardent, o'er and o'er, Love, gratitude and pity wept at once. Confused and frightened at his sudden tears,

heart,

ing eye

Expressed the sacred triumph of his soul,
With conscious virtue, gratitude and love
Above the vulgar joy divinely raised.

Nor waited he reply. Won by the charm
Of goodness irresistible, and all

In sweet disorder lost, she blushed consent. The news immediate to her mother brought While pierced with anxious thought she pined

away

The lonely moments for Lavinia's fate, Amazed, and scarce believing what she heard, Joy seized her withered veins, and one bright gleam

Of setting life shone on her evening hours, Not less enraptured than the happy pair, Who flourished long in tender bliss and reared A numerous offspring lovely like themselves, And good, the grace of all the country round.

HE

JAMES THOMSON.

HUDIBRAS'S LOGIC.

E was in logic a great critic,
Profoundly skilled in analytic;

He could distinguish and divide

A hair 'twixt south and south-west side,
On either which he would dispute,
Confute, change hands, and still confute;
He'd undertake to prove by force
Of argument a man's no horse;
He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a lord may be an owl,
A calf an alderman, a goose a justice,
And rooks committee-men and trustees;
He'd run in debt by disputation,
And pay with ratiocination :
All this by syllogism true

In mood and figure he would do.

His mouth but out there flew a trope;
And when he happened to break off

I' th' middle of his speech or cough,
H' had hard words ready to show why,
And tell what rules he did it by;
Else, when with greatest art he spoke,
You'd think he talked like other folk;
For all a rhetorician's rules
Teach nothing but to name his tools.

But when he pleased to show't, his speech
In loftiness of sound was rich-
A Babylonish dialect

Which learned pedants much affect:
It was a party-colored dress
Of patched and piebald languages;
'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin,
Like fustian heretofore on satin;
It had an odd promiscuous tone,
As if he had talked three parts in one,
Which made some think, when he did gabble,
Th' had heard three laborers of Babel,
Or Cerberus himself, pronounce
A leash of languages at once.
This he as volubly would vent
As if his stock would ne'er be spent;
And truly, to support that charge,
He had supplies as vast and large,
For he could coin or counterfeit
New words with little or no wit-
Words so debased and hard no stone.
Was hard enough to touch them on;
And when with hasty noise he spoke 'em,
The ignorant for current took 'em;
That had the orator who once
Did fill his mouth with pebble-stones
When he harangued but known his phrase,
He would have used no other ways.

SAMUEL BUTLER.

WELL-BRED carriage is difficult to imitate; for in strictness it is negative, and it implies a long-continued previous training. You are not required to exhibit in your manner anything that betokens dignity, for by this means you are like to run into formality and haughtiness: you are rather to avoid whatever is undignified and vulgar. You are never to forget yourself, are to keep a constant watch upon yourself and others, to forgive nothing that is faulty in your own conduct, in that of others neither to forgive too little nor too much. Nothing must appear to touch you, nothing to agitate; you must never overhurry your self, must ever keep yourself composed, retaining still an outward calmness whatever storms may rage within. The noble character at certain moments may resign himself to his emotions; the well-bred man, never. The latter is like a man dressed in fair and spotless clothes: he will not lean on anything; every person will beware of rubbing on him. He distinguishes himself from others, yet he may not stand apart. The well-bred man of rank, in spite of every separation, always seems united with the people round him; he is never to be stiff or uncomplying; he is always to appear the first, and never to insist on so appearing.

It is clear, then, that to seem well-bred a man must actually be so. It is also clear why women are generally more expert at taking up the air of breeding than the other sex, why courtiers and soldiers catch it more easily than other men.

Translation of JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

THE ROMANCE OF INSECT-LIFE.

THE earth teems with mysteries. The

sky shines with them; they float in the air; they swim in the deep; they flash from the dark-robed clouds; they whisper in the gentle tones of the summer wind; they speak in trumpet-tongues in the voice of the tempest and the thunder.

Cease thy longings for the ancient days, O dreamer! Close thy book and look about thee upon the volume of Nature. See! there before thee is a tiny insect that thou canst scarce distinguish from the grains of sand that surround it. Watch it. It moves on with an energy and an instinct that enable it to overcome or avoid all obstacles. See! it has seized some object larger than itself, and still it goes bravely on. Nothing daunts it; nothing stops it. Tread it under foot, if thou canst have the heart to attempt such a murder, and it will rise up again beneath the ocean of sand and turn once more to its labor. Dost thou know it? It is the ant-the lion-hearted ant—toiling amid the heat of summer; and, though the season's brightness and its warmth are bringing up