161. THE KID.

A tear bedews my Delia's eye

To think yon playful kid must die;
From crystal spring and flowery mead,
Must, in his prime of life, recede.

Erewhile, [1] in sportive circles, round
She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound;
From rock to rock pursue his way,
And on the fearful margin play.

Pleased on his various freaks to dwell,
She saw him climb my rustic cell;
Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright,
And seem all ravished at the sight.

She tells with what delight he stood
To trace his features in the flood:
Then skipp'd aloof with quaint amaze;
And then drew near again to gaze.

She tells me how, with eager speed,
He flew to hear my vocal reed;
And how, with critic face profound,
And steadfast ear, devour'd the sound.

His every frolic, light as air,
Deserves the gentle Delia's care;
And tears bedew her tender eye
To think the playful kid must die.

[1] Erewhile-a little while ago.

Shenstone.

162.-THE HAREBELL AND THE
FOXGLOVE.

In a valley obscure on a bank of green shade,
A sweet little Harebell her dwelling had made;
Her roof was a woodbine, that tastefully spread
Its close-woven tendrils, o'er-arching her head;
Her bed was of moss, that each morning made

new;

She dined on a sunbeam and supped on the dew;
Her neighbour the nightingale sung her to rest,
And care had ne'er planted a thorn in her breast.

One morning she saw, on the opposite side,
A Foxglove displaying his colours of pride;
She gazed on his form, that in stateliness grew,
And envied his height and his beautiful hue;
She marked how the flowerets all gave way
him
While they pressed round her dwelling with far
less decorum.

Dissatisfied, jealous, and peevish she grows,

before

And the sight of this Foxglove destroys her repose; She tires of her vesture, and, swelling with spleen, Cries, 'Ne'er such a dowdy blue mantle was

66

seen!"

Nor keeps to herself any longer her pain, But thus to a Primrose begins to complain: “I envy your mood, that can patient abide The respect paid that Foxglove, his airs and his pride:

There you sit, still the same, with your colourless cheek;

But you have no spirit-would I were as meek!"

The Primrose, good-humoured, replied, "If you

knew

More about him--(remember I'm older than you, And, better instructed, can tell you his tale)You would envy him least of all flowers in this vale; With all his fine airs and his dazzling show,

No flower more baneful and odious can blow; And the reason the flowerets before him give way, Is because they all hate him, and shrink from his sway.

To stay near him long would be fading or death, For he scatters a pest with his venomous breath; While the flowers that you fancy are crowding you there

Spring round you, delighted your converse to

share:

His flame-coloured robe is imposing, tis true;

Yet who likes it so well as your mantle of blue?

For we know that of innocence one is the vest,
The other the cloak of a treacherous breast.
I see your surprise-but I know him full well,
And have numbered his victims, as fading they
fell;

He blighted twin violets that under him lay,
And poisoned a sister of mine the same day.”

The Primrose was silent; the Harebell, 'tis said,
Inclined for a moment her beautiful head,
But quickly recovered her spirits, and then
Declared that she ne'er should feel envy again.

163.-KING CANUTE.

Upon his royal throne he sate,
In a monarch's thoughtful mood ;
Attendants on his regal state

His servile courtiers stood,

With foolish flatteries, false and vain,
To win his smile, his favour gain.

They told him e'en the mighty deep
His kingly sway confest;

That he could bid its billows leap,
Or still its stormy breast!

He smiled contemptuously, and cried,
"Be then my boasted empire tried."

Down to the ocean's sounding shore
The proud procession came,
To see its billows' wild uproar

King Canute's power proclaim ;
Or, at his high and dread command,
In gentle murmurs kiss the strand.

Not so, thought he, their noble king,
As his course he sea-ward sped ;-
And each base slave, like a guilty thing,
Hung down his conscious head ;-
He knew the ocean's Lord on high!
They, that he scorned their senseless lie,

His throne was placed by ocean's side, He lifted his sceptre there;

Bidding, with tones of kingly pride,
The waves their strife forbear:

And, while he spoke his royal will,
All but the winds and waves were still.

Louder the stormy blast swept by,
In scorn of his idle word;
The briny deep its waves toss'd high,
By his mandate undeterred,

As threat'ning, in their angry play,
To sweep both king and court away.

The monarch, with upbraiding look,
Turned to the courtly ring;

But none the kindling eye could brook
Even of his earthly king;

For in that wrathful glance, they see
A mightier monarch wronged than he !

Canute! thy regal race is run;

Thy name were passed away,
But for the meed this tale hath won,
Which never shall decay :

Its meek, unperishing renown
Outlasts thy sceptre and thy crown,

The Persian, [1] in his mighty pride,
Forged fetters for the main;
And when its floods his power defied,
Inflicted stripes as vain :-

But it was worthier far of thee

To know thyself, than rule the sea!

Bernard Barton.

2

[1] Xerxes.

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