The roll, which this reptile's long history records, A treat to the sage antiquarian affords: The sense, by obscure hieroglyphics conceal'd, Deep learning, at length, with long labour reveal'd. The first thousand years, as a specimen, take; The dates are omitted, for brevity's sake. "Crawled out of some rubbish, and wink'd Half opened the other, but could not tell why; To loosen the stone, which was fast in the sand; Crept into a corner and grinned at a snake. : In the pleasant moist shade of a strawberry bed. There fine speckled creatures claimed kindred with me, And others that hopp'd, most enchanting to see. Here long I regaled with emotion extreme ;- Was fretful at first, then shed a few tears.". MORAL. It seems that life is all a void, Perhaps you'd spend a thousand so. Jane Taylor. 175.-SONG OF THE STRAWBERRY GIRL. It is summer! it is summer! how beautiful it looks; There is sunshine on the grey hills, and sunshine on the brooks; A singing-bird on every bough, soft perfumes on the air, A happy smile on each young lip, and gladness every where! X Oh! is it not a pleasant thing to wander through the woods, To look upon the painted flowers, and watch the opening buds; Or seated in the cool deep shade, at some tall ashtree's root, To fill my little basket with the sweet and scented fruit? They tell me that my father's poor-that is no grief to me, When such a blue and brilliant sky my up-turned eye can see; They tell me too that richer girls can sport with toy and gem; It may be so and yet, methinks, I do not envy them. When forth I go upon my way, a thousand toys are mine, The clusters of dark violets, the wreaths of the wild vine; My jewels are the primrose pale, the bind-weed, and the rose; And shew me any courtly gem more beautiful than those. And then the fruit! the glowing fruit, how sweet the scent it breathes! I love to see its crimson cheek rest on the bright green leaves! Summer's own gift of luxury in which the poor may share, The wild-wood fruit my eager eye is seeking every. where. Oh! summer is a pleasant time, with all its sounds and sights; Its dewy mornings, balmy eves, and tranquil calm delights; I sigh when first I see the leaves fall yellow on the plain, And all the winter long I sing-sweet summer come again! 176.-LOST IN A WOOD. Could we but hear The folded flocks penn'd in their wattled cotes, 177. THE DOG OF ST. BERNARD'S. They tell that on St. Bernard's [3] mount, [1] Pastoral reed-shepherd's pipe. [2] Innumerous-too many to be counted, [8] St. Bernard's-a lofty mountain, one of the Alps in Switzerland, on the summit of which is a monastery, whose inmates are accustomed to give hospitable shelter to the weary traveller. The weary, way-worn traveller Oft sinks beneath the snow; 'Twas here, bewilder'd and alone, Onward he press'd, yet, many an hour And many an hour he had not known Which way And if the convent-bell had rung It still had rung in vain for him— And should the morning light disclose To him 'twas but a mournful sight- Valour could arm no mortal man But obedience to a master's will [1] The hospitable monks keep a number of wild-looking but sagacious dogs, which they send forth in stormy weather to rescue travellers. |