And if it be too much to say
That pity gave him speed,
'Tis sure he not unwillingly
Perform'd the generous deed.

For now he listens-and anon
He scents the distant breeze,
And casts a keen and anxious look
On every speck he sees.

And now deceiv'd, he darts along,
As if he trod the air,

Then disappointed, drops his head,
With more than human care.

He never loiters by the way,
Nor lays him down to rest,
Nor seeks a refuge from the shower
That pelts his generous breast.

And surely 'tis not less than joy
That makes it throb so fast,
When he sees, extended on the snow,
The wanderer found at last.

'Tis surely he-he saw him move,

And at the joyful sight

He toss'd his head with a prouder air,

His fierce eye grew more bright;

Eager emotion swell'd his breast

To tell his generous tale

And he raised his voice to its loudest tone

To bid the wanderer hail.

The pilgrim heard-he rais'd his head,
And beheld the shaggy form-
With sudden fear, he seiz'd the gun
That rested on his arm;

"Ha! art thou come to rend alive
What dead thou might'st devour?
And does thy savage fury grudge
My one remaining hour ?"

Fear gave him back his wasted strength,
He took his aim too well-

The bullet bore the message home-
The injured mastiff fell.

His eye was dimm'd, his voice was still,
And he toss'd his head no more-

But his heart, though it ceased to throb with joy,
Was generous as before!

For round his willing neck he bore

A store of needful food; [1]

That might support the traveller's strength

On the yet remaining road.

Enough of parting life remain'd

His errand to fulfil—

One painful, dying effort more
Might save the murderer still.
So he heeded not his aching wound,

But crawl'd to the traveller's side,
Mark'd with a look the way he came,

Then shudder'd, groan'd, and died! [2]

[1] A bottle of wine and a loaf are tied round the necks of these dogs when they are sent forth.

[2] It is said, that the traveller, tracing the dog's footsteps in the snow, reached the convent in safety.

178. THE BLOSSOM.

Said Anna to Jane, as they loiter'd one day, In the year's early spring, by the garden-hedge side,

"Those bright, clustering flowers on yonder tall

tree

Are the fairest and sweetest I ever espied.

"But I know that to-night, ere the sun shall have set,

Their form will be changed, and their colours will fly ;

I almost could weep that such beauty should pass― 'Tis surely a pity that blossoms must die.

"But at least I'll enjoy them as long as I can, For go when they will I shall leave them with sorrow;

They shall bloom on my bosom at least for to-day, Since, whether or no, I must lose them tomorrow."

The blossom was gather'd, and smil'd in her breast,

For many an hour, full sweetly, no doubtIt died, as it would were it left in the treeBut she who had gather'd it had not the fruit.

And 'tis so that we sigh o'er our life's fleeting joys, Forgetting the purpose for which they were

given;

Forgetting, though sweet be the blossoms on earth,
The fruit they should bear us is gathered in
heaven.
Miss Fry.

179. THE FORCE OF INSTINCT.

FOUNDED ON FACTS.

When May with verdure decked the bowers,
And summon'd forth the gladsome flowers,
While music filled the air,
A tuft of filberts in my field,

With clustering leaves a nest concealed,
Built by a faithful pair

Of linnets, tenants of the grove-
O ne'er in spring did nuptial love
Two fonder birds unite!
Their vermeil-painted bosoms seen
Amidst the dark embowering green,
Appeared like coral bright.

With feathers lined, of roots and leaves,
A nest their callow brood receives;

?

What words can paint their care But short their bliss a school-boy saw, And, unrestrained by pity's law,

Took aim and shot the pair.

To me he brought the cradling nest;
I warmed the orphans in my breast,
And searched the grove for food;
Alas! each dainty lured in vain,
Nor worms, nor seeds, nor moisten'd grain
Could tempt the pining brood.

Brought from Canaria's isles, encaged,
Long had a bird my love engaged,

And charm'd my lonely hours;

Though doomed no social joys to share, Yet tamed by custom, free from care, She fluttered 'mid my flowers.

Soon as the solitary bird

The note of infant nestlings heard,
By mighty instinct led,
No more her crystal fount delights,
Nor perch, nor groundsel feast, invites,
She droops her golden head.

At once grown conscious of control,
With all the mother in her soul,
She answered to their cry;
Curious to trace great nature's lore,
I quick unbarred her glittering door,
And let the captive fly.

Then cowering o'er the long-chill'd nest,
With anxious chirps she fondly press'd
Each suppliant bird to feed ;

And thus, of parents dear bereaved,
These little orphans soon received
Assistance in their need.

Mrs. Montolien.

180. THE SQUIRREL.

The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play, Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm That age or injury hath hollow'd deep,