THE RAGGED GIRL'S SUNDAY.
Say, candidly, am I not almost your size?'
'No.' 'Look now?' 'Not near it.' 'Ah where are your eyes?'
'You cannot approach it.' The mean little wretch
Now drew a long breath, gave her skin such a stretch
That she died! 'Tis a warning to many we see
In the world, who are not a whit wiser than she,
Where every one aims at excelling their betters;
Ambassadors carry each small prince's letters;
Where every fool wishes to pass for a sage,
And each little lordling must have his foot-page.
THE RAGGED GIRL'S SUNDAY.
‹Оí, dear mamma, that little girl
Forgets this is the day
When children should be clean and neat,
And read, and learn, and pray!
Her face is dirty and her frock,
Holes in her stockings, see;
Her hair is such a fright, oh dear!
How wicked she must be !
She's playing in the kennel dirt
With ragged girls and boys;
But I would not on Sunday touch
My clean and pretty toys.
I go to church, and sit so still,
I in the garden walk,
Or take my stool beside the fire,
And hear nice Sunday talk.
I read my Bible, learn my hymns,
My Catechism say;
That wicked little girl does not-
She only cares to play.'
'Ah! hush that boasting tone, my love,
Repress self-glorying pride; You can do nothing of yourself— Friends all your actions guide.
Thank them if you are clean and neat;
Thank them if you are taught
To keep the holy Sabbath-day,
Or do what else you ought.
The nestling bird that waits for food,
With eager beak and cry,
The new-born lamb that on the grass
Beside its dam doth lie,
Are not so helpless, child, as you.
Forbear, then, to despise
Yon ragged girl; she has no friends
To make her good and wise.'
THE WOLF AND THE MASTIFF.
A STARVING Wolf, all skin and bone
(So well the watch-dogs did their duty),
One day met wandering near his den
A Mastiff, famed for strength and beauty.
Sir Wolf, had cowardice allowed,
Would fain have torn him limb from limb;
But Mastiff's eye his courage cowed,
He dared not risk a fight with him.
So he puts on his humblest guise,
With hidden teeth and downcast eyes
He fain the Mastiff would persuade
That stealing lambs was ne'er his trade.
Wolf compliments him on his looks,
The Mastiff bows, and makes reply:
'It only rests with you, my friend,
To look as well and plump as I.
Quit your retreat, and leave these woods,
You wolves must lead a wretched life;
Poor, sneaking, starving, thieving curs,
Snatching your scraps at point of knife.
Come! follow me, and thrive.' Said Wolf:
'What duties should I have to render?'
Flatter your friends, your master please,
And do your part as house-defender
By keeping idle folks at bay.
Your salary will be savoury messes,
And dainty remnants-chicken bones,
Not mentioning sundry kind caresses.'
The Wolf imagined happiness,
That made him weep with tenderness.
As thus they walk, the Wolf exclaims:
'What is that mark? your neck is bare!'
'Nothing at all,' the Dog replies.
'What! nothing?' 'A mere trifle, sir.'
'But, still'
'The band which fastens me
May possibly have caused that ill.'
'Fastens you! are you not then free
To wander at your own sweet will?"
'Not always; but what matter, friend?'
"It matters that I would not touch
Your dainty fare at such a price,
If it was worth ten times as much.
Excuse me-au revoir !' said he ;
I much prefer my liberty.'
RISE with the lark, and with the lark to bed.
The breath of night's destructive to the hue
Of every flower that blows. Go to the field,
And ask the humble daisy why it sleeps
Soon as the sun departs. Why close the eyes
Of blossoms infinite ere the still moon
Her Oriental veil puts off?
Nor let the sweetest blossom be exposed
That nature boasts to night's unkindly damp.
Well may it droop, and all its freshness lose,
Compelled to taste the rank and poisonous stream
Of midnight theatre and morning ball.
Give to repose the solemn hour she claims;
And from the forehead of the morning steal
The sweet occasion. Oh there is a charm
That morning has, that gives the brow of age
A smack of youth, and makes the lip of youth
Breathe perfumes exquisite ! Expect it not,
Ye who till noon upon a down-bed lie,
Indulging feverish sleep, or, wakeful, dream
Of happiness no mortal heart has felt
But in the regions of romance.
Ye fair,
Like you it must be wooed, or never won,
And, being lost, it is in vain ye ask
For milk of roses and Olympian dew.
Cosmetic art no tincture can afford
The faded features to restore: no chain,
Be it of gold and strong as adamant,
Can fetter beauty to the fair one's will.
Oн blessed, blessed flowers! the hand
That sent ye hither, pure and fair,
Though it had swept through all the land
Could nothing home so lovely bear.
Most tender and most beautiful,
All fresh with dew, and rich with balm, How from art's garlands dim and dull
Ye bear the glory and the palm!
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