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Oh, barbarous you, who still can bear
This mournful doom to bid me share;
To see me droop and sadden on
With wishful eye from dawn to dawn;
Beating my little breast in woe
'Gainst these dread wires that vex me so,
And my glad passage still deny,
To soar and sing in yonder sky.

Oh, let me fly, fly up once more:
How would my wing delighted soar!
What rapture would my song declare,
Pour'd out upon the sunny air!
Oh, set me free! for here in vain
I try to breathe one gladsome strain;
In this dark den I pine, I die;
Oh, let me flee to yonder sky!

26. The Spider and the Fly.

WILL you walk into my parlour, said a Spider to a Fly;

'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.

The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,

And I have many pretty things to shew when you get there.

Oh, no, no! said the little Fly; to ask me is in vain :

For who goes up that winding stair shall ne'er come down again.

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, Dear friend, what can I do

To prove the warm affection I have ever felt for you?

I have within my parlour great store of all that's nice :

I'm sure you're very welcome; will you please to take a slice ?

Oh, no, no! said the little Fly; kind sir, that cannot be;

For I know what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see.

Sweet creature, said the Spider, you're witty and you're wise;

How handsome are your gaudy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!

I have a little looking-glass upon my parlour-shelf;

If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.

Oh, thank you, gentle sir, she said, for what you're pleased to say;

And wishing you good morning now, I'll call another day.

The Spider turn'd him round again, and went into his den,

For well he knew that silly Fly would soon come back again.

And then he wove a tiny web, in a little corner sly,

And set his table ready for to dine upon the Fly;

And went out to his door again, and merrily did sing,

Come hither, pretty little Fly, with the gold and silver wing.

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little

Fly, Hearing his wily flattering words, came slowly fluttering by.

With humming wings she hung aloft, then nearer and nearer drew.

Thinking only of her crested head and gold and purple hue:

Thinking only of her brilliant wings, poor silly thing! at last,

Up jump'd the cruel Spider, and firmly held her fast!

He dragg'd her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,

Within his little parlour; but she ne'er came down again.

And now, my pretty maidens, who may this story hear,

To silly, idle, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give ear;

Unto an evil counsellor close heart, and ear, and eye,

And learn a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.

MARY HOWITT.

27. The Song of the Cormorant.

FLOATING, flying, swimming ever,
On the restless sea dwell I;
Boatmen say, "There goes a diver;"
Landsmen, ""Tis a bird of prey."

CHORUS.

Where the deep blue glassy ocean,
Rippling, murmurs pleasantly,
Where it raves in wild commotion,
Calm or tempest, there am I.

Where the crab, with slant meand'ring,
Crawls o'er tangled weeds his way,
Or herring-shoals delight in wand'ring,
There it is I seek my prey.

Where the deep blue glassy, &c.

Nets and lines and tackle ready,
Sailing with the early dawn,
Boatmen see me skim the eddy,
And hail a brother fisherman.
Where the deep blue glassy, &c.

H. F.

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WHEN in my sweet childhood that's gone
I stood by the side of the main,
At ev'ry new wave that roll'd on,

I wonder'd and wonder'd again;
As I gather'd the shells on its shore,
As I gaz'd on the vessels at sea,
The mystery grew more and more,
And could not interpreted be.

The thoughts which my childhood beguil'd
Were an emblem, I well perceive how;
As I thought of the sea when a child,
So I think of eternity now.

I stand by the side of its sea,

I gather the shells on its shore; But its depths are mysterious to me As the depths of the ocean of yore.

Thus every new year that we live
Brings mysteries strange to descry,
And the best of all homage to give
Is to wonder on still till we die.
Then the sea from its depth shall go fleeing,
All bare shall eternity be:

And those who now wonder not seeing,
Shall wonder the more when they see.

REV. E. CASWALL.

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How void of care yon merry Thrush,
That sings melodious in the bush;
That has no stores of wealth to keep,
No lands to plough, no corn to reap!

He never frets for worthless things,
But lives in peace, and sweetly sings;
Enjoys the present with his mate,
Unmindful of to-morrow's fate.

Rejoiced he finds his morning fare,
His dinner lies-he knows not where;
Still to the unfailing hand he chants
His grateful song, and never wants.

Of true felicity possess'd,

He glides through life supremely blest;
And for his daily meal relies

On Him whose love the world supplies.

WILLIAMS.

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