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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

with one eye ; Half opened the other, but could not tell why; Stretch'd out my left leg, as it felt rather queer, Then drew all together and slept for a year. Awaken'd, felt chilly—crept under a stone; · Was vastly contented with living alone, One toe became wedged in the stone, like a peg, Could not get it away—had the cramp in my leg : Began half to wish for a neighbour at hand To loosen the stone, which was fast in the sand ; Pull’d harder, then dozed, as I found 'twas no use; Awoke the next summer, and lo! it was loose. Crawled forth from the stone when completely

awake, Crept into a corner and grinned at a snake. Retreated, and found that I needed repose, Curled up my damp limbs and prepared for a doze; Fell sounder to sleep than was usual before, And did not awake for a century or more ; But had a sweet dream, as I rather believe :Methough it was light, and a fine summer's eve; And I in some garden deliciously fed 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;-
Awoke-disconcerted to find it a dream;
Grew pensive discovered that life is a load;
Began to get weary of being a toad :
Was fretful at first, then shed a few tears.”—
Here ends the account of the first thousand years.


It seems that life is all a void,
On selfish thoughts alone employed ;
That length of days is not a good,
Unless their use be understood;
While if good deeds one year engage,
That may be longer than an age:
But if a year in trifles go,
Perhaps you'd spend a thousand so.
Time cannot stay to make us wise-
We must improve it as it flies.

Jane Taylor.

175.-SONG OF THE STRAWBERRY GIRL, Itis 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!

Oh! is it not a pleasant thing to wander through

To the woods,

To look upon the painted flowers, and watch the

opening buds ; Or seated in the cool deep shade, at some tall ash

tree'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


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



Could we but hear The folded flocks penn'd in their wattled.cotes, Or sound of pastoral reed [1] with oaten stops, Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock Count the night watches to his feathery dames, 'Twould be some solace yet, some little cheering In this close dungeon of innumerous [2] boughs.


They tell that on St. Bernard's [3] mount,

Where holy monks abide,
Still mindful of misfortune's claim,

Though dead to all beside ;
(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;
For, where his faltering steps to bend

No track is left to shew.
'Twas here, bewilder'd and alone,

A stranger roam'd at night;
His heart was heavy as his tread,

His scrip alone was light.
Onward he press’d, yet, many an hour

He had not tasted food;
And many an hour he had not known

Which way his footsteps trod.
And if the convent-bell had rung

To hail the pilgrim near,
It still had rung in vain for him

He was too far to hear ;
And should the morning light disclose
· Its towers amid the snow,
To him 'twas but a mournful sight-

He had not strength to go.
Valour could arm no mortal man

That night to meet the storm
No glow of pity could have kept

A human bosom warm.
But obedience to a master's will

Had taught the dog [1] to roam,
And through the terrors of the waste,

To fetch the wanderer home. [1] The hospitable monks keep a number of wild-looking but sagacious dogs, which they send forth in stormy weather to rescue travellers.

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