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And with a gentle pow'r controul
Each wayward passion of the soul;
It gives the virtues, gives their grace,
Adds beauties to the fairest face;
It gives a thousand charms to shine,
And makes the human soul divine."

THE BUTTERFLY AND THE SNAIL.

ALL upstarts, insolent in place,
Remind us of their vulgar race.
As in the sunshine of the morn,
A Butterfly, but newly born,
Sate proudly, perking on a rose,
With pert conceit his bosom glows;
His wings, (all glorious to behold,)
Bedropt with azure, jet, and gold,
Wide he displays; the spangled dew
Reflects his eyes and various hue.

His now forgotten friend, a snail,
Beneath his house, with slimy trail
Crawls o'er the grass, whom when he spies,
In wrath, he to the gardener cries,
"What means yon peasant's daily toil,
From choaking weeds to rid the soil?
Why grows the peach with crimson hue,
And why the plum's inviting blue ?
Were they to feast his taste design'd,
That vermin of voracious kind?

Gay.

Crush then the slow, the pilfering race,
So, cleanse thy garden from disgrace."
"What arrogance !" the snail replied,
"How insolent is upstart pride.

Had'st thou not thus with insult vain,
Provok'd my patience to complain,
I had conceal'd thy meaner birth,
Nor given thee to the scum of earth.

For scarce nine suns have wak'd the hours,
To swell the fruit and paint the flow'rs,
Since I thy humbler life survey'd,

In base and sordid guise array

A hideous insect, vile, unclean,

d;

Thou dragg'dst a slow and noisome train;
And, from thy spider bowels drew,
Foul film, and spun the dirty clue.
I own, my humble life, good friend;
Snail was I born, and snail shall end.
And what is a Butterfly? at best,
He's but a caterpillar drest;

And all thy race, a numerous seed,
Will prove of caterpillar breed."

THE PRIMROSE AND THE BRAMBLE.

WHEN Nature wore her loveliest bloom,
And fields and hedges breath'd perfume;
When every painted child of spring
Flutter'd in air its little wing;

Pleas'd as I rang'd a verdant field,
(Each scene can some instruction yield);
Beneath a hedge, within my view,
A Bramble and a Primrose grew.
Fancy, that all-creative power,
Can give a tongue to every flower;
And thus, as I pursu'd my walk,
To fancy's ear, they seem'd to talk.
The Bramble rear'd his thorny head,
And to his humble neighbour said,
"Alas, thou poor unhappy thing,
Not bless'd with either thorn or sting;
What shall protect, if this lone shade,
The traveller's trampling feet invade?
Me, should he dare to touch, with speed
He should repent th' audacious deed;
Such insolence I'd soon repay,

And send him bleeding, hence, away.”
His boast, the Primrose meekly hears,
Nor felt from thence uneasy fears;
Since thorns she deem'd a less defence
Than unoffending innocence.

Ere long, to shun Sol's scorching rays,
Close to the hedge, a traveller strays;
The Bramble did as he had plann'd,
And deeply scratch'd his passing hand.
The man, resentful of the deed,
Soon rooted up the worthless weed;
Toss'd it indignant from his sight,
That none might suffer from its spite;

While undisturb'd the primrose blooms,
And all admire its sweet perfumes.

Ye gentle youths, the tale attend,
And learn this maxim from a friend;
This maxim often taught in vain ;
"Ill-nature still produces pain;
At others, while she aims her dart,
It turns and pierces her own heart;
While meekness will esteem engage,
Admir'd, belov'd in youth and age."

THE TURKEY AND THE ANT.

IN other men we faults can spy,

And blame the mote that dims their eye;
Each little speck and blemish find;
To our own stronger errors blind.

A Turkey tir'd of common food,

Forsook the barn, and sought the wood;
Behind her ran an infant train,

Collecting here and there a grain.

"Draw near my birds," the mother cries; "This hill delicious fare supplies.

Behold that busy negro race;

See millions blacken all the place.

"Fear not, like me with freedom eat;
An ant is most delightful meat;
How blest, how envied were our life,
Could we but 'scape the poulterer's knife.

Gay.

"But man, vile man, on turkeys preys,
And Christmas shortens all our days;
Sometimes with oysters we combine,
Sometimes assist the savoury chine.

"From the low peasant to the lord,
The Turkey smokes on every board.
Sure men, for gluttony, are curst,
Of the seven deadly sins, the worst."

An Ant who climb'd beyond his reach,
Thus answer'd from a neighbouring beech;
"E'er you remark another's sin,
Bid thy own conscience look within ;
Control thy own voracious bill,

Nor, for a breakfast, nations kill.”

WAKING FROM A FRIGHTFUL DREAM.

WHERE am I now ? my head turns round;
This, sure, can never be the ground.
Do I still breathe? or am I dead?
Or do I dream? Is this my bed?
Methinks 'tis so, but I'm not sure:
Oh! here's my pillow, I'm secure.
Just now, it did all real seem;
This minute tells me 'tis a dream.
The dreadful precipice is gone,
Which I so lately hung upon,
With aching heart, and tottering feet,
Seeking, in vain, for a retreat;

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