But, with a chirrup clear and strong,

Dispersing all his dream,
I thence withdrew, and follow'd long,

The windings of the stream.
My ramble ended, I return'd;

Beau trotted far before,
The floating wreath again discern'd,

And plunging, left the shore.
I saw him with that lily cropp'd,

Impatient swim to meet
My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd

The treasure at my feet.
Charm'd with the sight, “ The world,” I cried,

“Shall hear of this thy deed;
“My dog shall mortify the pride

“Of man's superior breed; “But chief myself I will enjoin,

“Awake at duty's call, “To show a love as prompt as thine " To Him who gives me all."

Cowper.

3. LUCY GRAY;

OR SOLITUDE.
Oft have I heard of Lucy Gray;

And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day

The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;

She dwelt on a wide moor,
The sweetest thing that ever grew

Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare

upon
the

green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray

Will never more be seen.

“To-night will be a stormy night

“ You to the town must go; “ And take a lantern, child to light

“Your mother through the snow.” " That, Father! will I gladly do;

“ 'Tis scarcely afternoon“ The minster-clock has just struck two,

“ And yonder is the Moon!”
At this the Father raised his hook,

And snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his hook; and Lucy took

The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe:

With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,

That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time:

She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb:

But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night

Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight

To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood

That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,

A furlong from their door.

They wept-and turning homeward, cried,

6 In heaven we all shall meet;" When in the snow the mother spied

The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downwards from the steep hill's edge

They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,

And by the long stone wall;
And then an open field they crossed:

The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;

And to the bridge they came. They followed from the

snowy

bank Those footmarks one by one, Into the middle of the plank;

And further there were none !

Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray

Upon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.

Wordsworth.

4.-BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

a

We buried him darkly, at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

As we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun,

That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory!

Wolfe. 5.-ON A FAVORITE CAT DROWNED IN A

TUB OF GOLD FISHES.

'Twas on a lofty vase's side
Where China’s gayest art had dyed

The azure flowers that blow,
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selina, reclined,

Gazed on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declared:
The fair round face, the snowy beard,

The velvet of her paws,
Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet and emerald eyes,

She saw, and purr'd applause.
Still had she gazed, but midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,

The genii of the stream:
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue,
Through richest purple, to the view

Betrayed a golden gleam.
The hapless nymph with wonder saw:
A whisker first, and then a claw,

With many an ardent wish,
She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize;
What female heart can gold despise ?

What cat's averse to fish?
Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Again she stretch'd, again she bent,

Nor knew the gulf between.
Malignant fate sat by and smiled,
The slippery verge her feet beguiled;

She tumbled headlong in!