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One day, while raining fast as it could pour,
The shopman, standing just within his door,
Perceiv'd our crazy scholar passing by,
With not a thread upon him dry.
Not wet himself-wishing to have some sport,
And scholar-like retort,
He hail'd him in the Latin tongue
And flung
A query, which, for those who do not know,
Is render’d into English just below.

Pluit tantum
Nescio quantum

Scisne tu?
That it rains hard I am aware,
How much it rains I can't declare,

Pray Sir, can you ?
The craz'd man turn'd, and flung a huge stone, dashing
Thro' window panes, producing direful crashing:

And further gave his tit-for-tat in
The following doggrel Latin:

Fregi tot

Nescio quot

Scisne tu?
A heap of things are gone to pot,
How many truly I know not,
Pray Sir, do you ?

SORE was the famine throughout all the bounds
Of Israel, when Elijah, by command
Of God, toild on to Cherith’s failing brook.
No rain-drops fell, no dew-fraught cloud, at morn,
Or closing eve, creeps slowly up the vale.

The withering herbage dies. Among the palms,
The shrivell’d leaves send to the summer gale
An autumn rustle. No sweet songster's lay
Is warbled from the branches. Scarce is heard
The rill's faint brawl. The prophet looks around,
And trusts in God, and lays his silver'd head
Upon the flowerless bank. Serene he sleeps,
Nor wakes till dawning. Then with hands enclasp'd,
And heavenward face, and eye-lids clos'd, he prays
To Him who manna on the desert shower'd,
To Him who from the rock made fountains gush.
Entranc'd the man of God remains ; till, rous'd
By sound of wheeling wings, with grateful heart
He sees the ravens fearless by his side
Alight, and leave the heaven-provided food!


Ye musical hounds of the fairy king,

Who hunt for the golden dew,
Who track for your game the green coverts of spring,
Till the echoes, that lurk in the flower-bells, ring

With the peal of your elfin crew!
How joyous your life, if its pleasures ye knew,

Singing ever from bloom to bloom!
Ye wander the summer year's paradise through,
The souls of the flowers are the viands for

you, And the air that you breathe perfume. But unenvied your joys, while the richest you miss,

And before you no brighter life lies: Who would part with his cares for enjoyment like this, When the tears, that imbitter the pure spirit's bliss,

May be pearls in the crown of the skies?




In a garden as bright as the isles of the blest,

A Dervise of Gazna delighted to rove; There the rose was expanding her beautiful breast,

And the nightingale near sung the music of love: The gales breath'd of bliss o'er the plants that grew Exhaling perfume, or enchanting the eye. [nigh, By a fountain that whisper'd in tones of delight

The spring loving almond exulted in bloom; There the eye of the waken'd narcissus was bright,

And the locks of the hyacinth scatter'd perfume: Here the tulips were marshall'd in turban'd array, There the cedar's dark grandeur excluded the day. The Dervise from home and from comfort remov'd,

O'er life's stony desert long wander'd in pain; Yet oft he remember'd the garden he lov’d,

And sigh'd to repose by its borders again. Thus years

but his love was the same, And at length to the garden returning he came. The roses were gone, and the nightingales fled;

There no more were the tulips in turban'd array; The cedar was fall'n, the almond was dead,

And rank were the weeds that obstructed the way; No longer was seen the narcissus's eye ; The flowers were destroy’d, and the fountain was dry. The Dervise look'd round, and beginning to grieve,

Sigh’d deeply, and said in the language of truth, “How mournful a change does the mortal perceive,

Who returns in his age to the scenes of his youth ! In hope he returns, but enjoyment is o'er ; His friends, like the flowers I lament, are no more!”

flew away,


-Look how the wood-walks hither tend,
As to a centre; some in vistas green,
Pillar'd and overarch'd, as the long aisles
Of an old proud cathedral; others wandering
In lovelier mazes through a various scene,
Holly or copse wood : scarce the


can trace Their coy meanders; but all meeting here Beneath this monarch oak, through whose thick

boughs The sụn comes ffickering. How the indented

leaves Of brightest green cut clearly the blue sky And the small clouds! And how this tiny spring Bubbles and sparkles round the moss-grown roots, Winding its silver thread along the short Elastic turf, so thickly set with flowers, And mix'd with fragrant herbs; till all is lost Amongst the bowery thickets ! Not a spot In all the forest can compare with this, Nature's own temple !

Miss Mitford.



"Twas eight o'clock, and near the fire

My ruddy little boy was seated,
And with the title of a sire

My ears expected to be greeted :
But vain the thought; by sleep oppress’d,

No father there the child descried;
His head reclin’d upon his breast,

Or, nodding, rolld from side to side.


“ Let this young rogue be sent to bed !” —

Nought further had I time to say, When the poor urchin rais’d his head

To beg that he might longer stay. Refus’d, tow’rds rest his steps he bent,

With tearful eye and aching heart; But claim'd his playthings ere he went,

And took stairs his horse and cart. For new delay, though oft denied,

He pleaded; wildly crav’d the boon:
Though his usual hour, he cried

At being sent away so soon.
If stern to him, his grief I shar'd;

(Unmov'd who hears his offspring weep ?) Of soothing him I half despair’d;

But soon his cares were lost in sleep. Alas! poor infant !” I exclaim'd,

Thy father blushes now to scan, In all which he so lately blam'd,

The follies and the fears of man. The vain regret, the anguish brief,

Which thou hast known, sent up to bed, Portrays of man the idle grief,

When doom'd to slumber with the dead." And more I thought; when, up the stairs,

With“ longing, ling’ring looks,” he crept, To mark of man the childish cares,

His playthings carefully he kept. Thus mortals, on life's later stage,

When nature claims their forfeit breath, Still grasp at wealth in pain and age,

And cling to golden toys in death.

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