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• ON A WATCH.
While this gay toy attracts thy sight, .
Thy reason let it warn;
That never must return.
If idly lost, no art or care
The blessing can restore ;
For every mis-spent hour.
Short is our longest day of life,
And soon its prospect ends ; Yet on that day's uncertain date,
But equal to our being's aim,
The space to virtue given ; And ev'ry minute well improv'd, Secures an age in heav'n.
THE DROWNING FLY.
Giant of the Polar seas :
Who disturb his nighty ease?
Playful, through his way is geen ; Sparkling in the clear blue sky,
Foaming white o'er waves so greep. Sure the mark, the boatinen's guide ;
Stout they pull the bending our : Near his blacken'd form they glide,
Fling the harpoon-then spouts the gore. Deep beneathi his blubber skin
Fast its hold the iron keeps ; Pain'd he dives, and hopes to win
Safety in his native deeps: Vain the hope, the purple tide,
Open'd by the unerring dart, Gushes from his wounded side,
Drains at length his futtering heart.
Now they win the unwieldy prize";
THE BEGGAR-MAN. AROUND the fire, one wintry night,
The farmer's rosy children sat; The faggot lent its blazing light;
And jokes went round and careless chat.
When, hark! a gentle hand they hear,
Low tapping at the bolted door ; And thus, to gain their willing ear,
A feeble voice was heard t'implore :
“ Cold blows the blast across the moor:
The sleet drives hissing in the wind; Yon toilsome mountain lies before ;
A dreary treeless waste behind.
“My eyes are weak and dim with age ;
No road, no path can I descry; And these poor rags ill stand the rage
Of such a keen inclement sky.
“So faint I am—these tottering feet
No more my palsied frame can bear; My freezing heart forgets to beat,
And drifting snows my tomb prepare.
« Open your hospitable door,
And shield me from the biting blast, Cold, cold it blows across the moor,
The weary moor that I have pass’d !"
With hasty step the farmer ran,
And close beside the fire they place The poor half-frozen beggar-man,
With shaking limbs and blue-pale face.
The little children flocking came,
And chafed his frozen hands in theirs; And busily the good old dame
A comfortable mess prepares.
Their kindness cheer'd his drooping soul;
And slowly down his wrinkled cheek The big round tears were seen to roll,
And told the thanks he could not speak.
The children, too, began to sigh,
And all their merry chat was o'er ; And yet they felt, they knew not why, More glad than they had done before.