Complaining in a speech well worded, And worthy thus to be recorded:

Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to
For ever in my native shell,
Ordain'd to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease,
But toss'd and buffeted about,
Now in the water, and now out.
"Twere better to be born a stone
Of ruder shape and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And sensibility so fine :

I envy that unfeeling shrub,
Fast-rooted against ev'ry rub."

The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the sneer with scorn enough;
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
And with asperity replied.

(When, cry the botanists, and stare, Did plants call'd sensitive grow there? No matter when, a poet's muse is

To make them grow where just she chooses.) "You shapeless nothing in a dish,

You that are but almost a fish,
I scorn your coarse insinuation,
And have most plentiful occasion
To wish myself the rock I view,
Or such another dolt as you.
For many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay, unletter'd spark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he;

And when I bend, retire, and shrink,

Says, 'Well, 'tis more than one would think.'
Thus life is spent, O fie upon 't!

In being touch'd, and crying, 'Don't!'"
A poet, in his evening walk,

O'erheard, and check'd this idle talk.

Shook the young leaves about her ears, And fill'd her with a thousand fears, Lest the rude blast should snap the bough, And spread her golden hopes below. But just at eve the blowing weather, And all her fears were hush'd together: "And now," quoth poor unthinking Ralph, "Tis over, and the brood is safe;" (For ravens, though as birds of omen They teach both conj'rors and old women To tell us what is to befall,

Can't prophesy themselves at all.)

The morning came, when neighbor Hodge,
Who long had mark'd her airy lodge,
And destin'd all the treasure there

A gift to his expecting fair,
Climb'd like a squirrel to his prey,
And bore the worthless prize away.

MORAL.

'Tis Providence alone secures, Safety consists not in escape In ev'ry change, both mine and yours.

From dangers of a frightful shape:
An earthquake may be bid to spare
The man that's strangled by a hair.
Fate steals along with silent tread,

yours,

Whatever evil it endures,

Deserves not, if so soon offended,
Much to be pitied or commended.
Disputes, though short, are far too long,
Where both alike are in the wrong;
Your feelings, in their full amount,
Are all upon your own account.
"You, in your grotto-work enclos'd,
Complain of being thus expos'd,
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat:
Wherever driven by wind or tide,
Exempt from ev'ry ill beside.

"And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon ev'ry touch a blemish,
If all the plants that can be found
Embellishing the scene around

Should droop and wither where they grow,
You would not feel at all, not you.
The noblest minds their virtue prove
By pity, sympathy, and love.
These, these are feelings truly fine,
And prove their owner half divine."

His censure reach'd them as he dealt it, And each, by shrinking, show'd he felt it.

Frowns in the storm with angry brow,
And in the sunshine strikes the blow.
The Love of the World detected. CowPER,
THUS says the prophet of the Turk:
"Good Mussulman, abstain from pork;
There is a part in ev'ry swine
No friend or follower of mine
May taste, whate'er his inclination,
On pain of excommunication."
Such Mahomet's mysterious charge,
And thus he left the point at large.
Had he the sinful part express'd,
They might with safety eat the rest :
But for one piece, they thought it hard
From the whole hog to be debarr'd,
And set their wit at work to find
What joint the prophet had in mind.
Much controversy straight arose ;
These choose the back, the belly those;
By some 'tis confidently said

He meant not to forbid the head;
While others at that doctrine rail,
And piously prefer the tail:

Thus, conscience freed from ev'ry clog,
Mahometans eat up the hog.

You laugh-'tis well; the tale applied May make you laugh on t' other side. "Renounce the world," the preacher cries: "We do," a multitude replies.

While one as innocent regards

A snug and friendly game at cards;
And one, whatever you may say,
Can see no evil in a play;
Some love a concert, or a race,

And others, shooting, and the chase.
Revil'd and lov'd, renounc'd and follow'd,
Thus bit by bit the world is swallow'd:
Each thinks his neighbor makes too free,
Yet likes a slice as well as be:
With sophistry their sauce they sweeten,
Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.
The Jackdaw. CowPER.
THERE is a bird who by his coat,
And by the hoarseness of his note,

Might be suppos'd a crow;
A great frequenter of the church,
Where, bishop-like, he finds a perch
And dormitory too.

About the steeple shines a plate,
That turns and turns, to indicate

From what point blows the weather;
Look up, your brains begin to swim ;
"Tis in the clouds: that pleases him,
He chooses it the rather.
Fond of the speculative height,
Thither he wings his airy flight,
And thence securely sees

The bustle and the rareshow
That occupies mankind below,

Secure and at his ease.

You think, no doubt, he sits and muses
On future broken bones and bruises,
If he should chance to fall;

No, not a single thought like that
Employs his philosophic pate,

Or troubles it at all.

He sees that this great roundabout,
The world, with all its motley rout,

Church, army, physic, law,

Its customs and its businesses
Are no concern at all of his,

And says What says he? “Caw."
Thrice happy bird! I too have seen
Much of the vanities of men,

And, sick of having seen 'em,
Would cheerfully these limbs resign
For such a pair of wings as thine,

And such a head between 'em.
We are Seven. WORDSWORTH.
A SIMPLE child
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl :

She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
-Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be?"

"How many? Seven in all," she said,
And wondering look'd at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell." She answer'd, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.
"Two of us in the church-yard lie,

My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I

Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven !-I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be ?"
Then did the little maid reply,

"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."
"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied,

"Twelve steps or more from mother's door,

And they are side by side.

My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground I sit-
I sit and sing to them.

"And often after sun-set, sir,
When it is light and fair,

I take my little porringer, there.

And eat my supper

"The first that died was little Jane ; In bed she moaning lay,

Till God releas'd her of her pain;

And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, all the summer dry,
Together round her grave we play'd,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forc'd to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven ?"

The little maiden did reply,

"O, master! we are seven." "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away: for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

WORDSWORTH.

Rura Architecture. THERE'S George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore, [not more Three rosy cheek'd school-boys, the highest Than the height of a counsellor's bag; To the top of GREAT How did it please them to climb; [lime, And there they built up, without mortar or A man on the peak of the crag.

They built him of stones gather'd up as they lay; [day, They built him and christen'd him all in one An urchin both vigorous and hale;

And so without scruple they call'd him Ralph Jones.

Now Ralph is renown'd for the length of his bones;

The Magog of Legberthwaite dale. Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth, And, in anger or merriment, out of the north Coming on with a terrible pother, From the peak of the crag blew the giant away. And what did these school-boys ?-The very next day

They went and they built up another. Some little I've seen of blind boisterous works By Christian disturbers, more savage than Spirits busy to do and undo;

All day she spun in her poor dwelling:
And then her three hours' work at night!
Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,

It would not pay for candle-light.
Remote from sheltering village green,
Upon a bleak hill-side, she dwelt,
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt.
By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one small cottage;

But she, poor woman! housed alone.
'Twas well enough when summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
Then at her door the canty dame

Would sit, as any linnet gay.

But when the ice our streams did fetter,

Oh! then how her old bones would shake! You would have said, if you had met her, 'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. Her evenings then were dull and dead! Sad case it was, as you may think, For very cold to go to bed;

And then for cold not sleep a wink. Oh joy for her! whene'er in winter

will flag

Goody Blake and Harry Gill.-A true Story.
WORDSWORTH.
OH! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle gray, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,

And coats enough to smother nine.
In March, December, and in July,

"Tis all the same with Harry Gill; The neighbours tell and tell you truly, His teeth they chatter, chatter still. At night, at morning, and at noon,

'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!
Young Harry was a lusty drover,

And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three.
Old Goody Blake was old and poor;
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who pass'd her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.

*Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirl-mere, on the western side of the beautiful dale of Legberthwaite, along the high road between Keswick and Ambleside.

Enough to warm her for three days. Now, when the frost was past enduring, And made her poor old bones to ache, Could any thing be more alluring

Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? And, now and then, it must be said. When her old bones were cold and chill She left her fire, or left her bed,

To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. Now Harry he had long suspected

This trespass of old Goody Blake; And vow'd that she should be detected, And he on her would vengeance take. And oft from his warm fire he 'd go,

And to the fields his road would take; And there, at night, in frost and snow, He watch'd to seize old Goody Blake. And once, behind a rick of barley,

Thus looking out did Harry stand:
The moon was full and shining clearly,
And crisp with frost the stubble land.
He hears a noise-he's all awake-

Again? on tip-toe down the hill
He softly creeps-'Tis Goody Blake,
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill.
Right glad was he when he beheld her.
Stick after stick did Goody pull :
He stood behind a bush of elder,

Till she had fill'd her apron full.
When with her load she turn'd about,
The by-road back again to take,