The Apple Tree.

At the sound of the word the good mare made a push,
And down went the priest in the wild-briar bush.
He remembered too late, on his thorny green bed,
Much that well may be thought cannot wisely be said.

T. L. PEACOCK.

97

THE APPLE-TREE.

LD John had an apple-tree, healthy and green,
Which bore the best baldwins that ever were seen,
So juicy, and mellow, and red;

And when they were ripe, as old Johnny was poor,
He sold them to children that passed by his door
To buy him a morsel of bread.

Little Dick, his next neighbour, one often might see,
With longing eye viewing this nice apple-tree,

And wishing an apple would fall;

One day, as he stood in the heat of the sun,

He began thinking whether he might not take one,
And then he looked over the wall.

And as he again cast his eye on the tree,

He said to himself, "Oh, how nice they would be,
So cool and refreshing to-day!

The tree is so full, and I'd only take one,

And old John won't see, for he is not at home,
And nobody is in the way."

But stop, little boy, take your hand from the bough!
Remember, though old John can't see you just now,
And no one to chide you is nigh,

There is ONE, who by night, just as well as by day,
Can see all you do, and can hear all you say,

From his glorious throne in the sky.

Oh, then, little boy, come away from the tree,

Content, hot or weary, or thirsty to be,

Or anything rather than steal!

For the great God, who even through darkness can look, Writes down every crime we commit in his book,

However we think to conceal.

JANE TAYLOR.

THE THREE FISHERS.

HREE fishers went sailing away to the west,
Away to the west as the sun went down ;

Each thought on the woman who loved him best, And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work, and women must weep,

And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbour bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,

And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown, But men must work and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbour bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands

In the morning gleam as the tide went down,

And the women are weeping and wringing their hands
For those who will never come home to the town;
For men must work and women must weep,
And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep,

And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

C. KINGSLEY.

The Beggar's Petition.

ABOU-BEN-ADHEM.

BOU-BEN-ADHEM-may his tribe increase!—
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight of his room,

Making it rich and like a lily's bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold.

Exceeding peace had made Ben-Adhem bold;
And to the Presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?" The vision raised his head,
And, with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spake more low,

But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

99

The angel wrote, and vanished.

The next night

He came again, with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blest ;

And, lo! Ben-Adhem's name led all the rest!

LEIGH HUNT.

THE BEGGAR'S PETITION.

ITY the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to
your door,

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,—
Oh, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store!

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,

These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek

Has been the channel to a stream of tears.

Yon house erected on the rising ground,

With tempting aspect drew me from my road; For plenty there a residence has found, And grandeur a magnificent abode.

(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!)
Here, as I craved a morsel of their bread,
A pampered menial drove me from their door,
To seek a shelter in a humble shed.

Oh, take me to your hospitable dome!

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold; Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, For I am poor and miserably old.

Should I reveal the sources of my grief,

If soft humanity ere touched your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity would not be repressed.

Heaven sends misfortune-why should we repine? 'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see; your condition may be soon like mineThe child of sorrow and of misery.

And.

A little farm was my paternal lot;

Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn : But, ah! oppression forced me from my cotMy cattle died, and blighted was my corn.

My daughter-once the comfort of my age!-
Lured by a villain from her native home,
Is cast abandoned on the world's wide stage,
And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.

The Beggar's Revenge.

My tender wife-sweet soother of my care!-
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell-lingering fell—a victim to despair,

And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,

ΙΟΙ

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,

Oh, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store!

Moss.

THE BEGGAR'S REVENGE.

'HE king's proud favourite at a beggar threw a stone: He picked it up, as if it had for alms been thrown.

He bore it in his bosom long with bitter ache,

And sought his time revenge with that same stone to take.

One day he heard a street mob's hoarse commingled cry: The favourite comes!--but draws no more the admiring eye.

He rides an ass, from all his haughty state disgraced;
And by the rabble's mocking gibes his way is traced.

The stone from out his bosom swift the beggar draws,
And, flinging it away, exclaims, "A fool I was!"

'Tis madness to attack, when in his power, your foe, And meanness then to strike when he has fallen low. ALGER'S Oriental Poetry.