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My sorrows I then might assuage,

In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold

Lies hid in that heavenly word! More precious than silver or gold, Or all that this earth can afford, But the sound of the church-going bell, These valleys and rocks never heard, Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell,

Or smiled when a sabbath appear'd.

Ye winds that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore

Some cordial, endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me? O, tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compar'd with the speed of its flight, The tempest himself lags behind

And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place,

And mercy, encouraging thought,

Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.

TO MARY UNWIN.

MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,

Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they drew,

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new

And undebased by praise of meaner things,

That ere through age or woe I shed my wings,

I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings:-
But thou hast little need. There is a Book
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright-
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;
And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.

TO THE SAME.

HE twentieth year is well nigh past,

THE

Since first our sky was overcast ;

Ah would that this might be the last,
My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow—

'Twas my distress that brought thee low,
My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,

For my sake restless heretofore,

Now rust disused, and shine no more,
My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary!

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,
And all thy threads with magic art
Have wound themselves about this heart,
My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem

Like language uttered in a dream ;

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,
My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,

Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently pressed, press gently mine,
My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st
That now at every step thou mov'st
Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,
My Mary!

And still to love, though pressed with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,

With me is to be lovely still,
My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know

How oft the sadness that I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last-
My Mary!

THE CHAMELEON.

BY JAMES MERRICK.-1720 1766.

[AT once amusing in verse and instructive in moral, this popular fable deserves a place in our volume; and although not of the highest character of poetry, yet it commends itself to selection by its old association with our school days and its favourite place in all Juvenile Speakers, its author, moreover, was a distinguished scholar. He took orders and became tutor to Lord North, but was obliged to abandon hope of preferment from delicate health. He is author of several hymns and a version of the Psalms. ]

FT has it been my lot to mark

O FTA

A proud, conceited, talking spark,
With eyes that hardly served at most
To guard their master 'gainst a post:
Yet round the world the blade has been,
To see whatever could be seen.
Returning from his finished tour,
Grown ten times perter than before;
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The travelled fool your mouth will stop:
"Sir, if my judgment you'll allow-
I've seen and sure I ought to know."
So begs you'd pay a due submission,

And acquiesce in his decision.

Two travellers of such a cast,
As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed,
And on their way, in friendly chat,
Now talked of this, and then of that;
Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter,
Of the Chameleon's form and nature.
"A stranger animal," cries one,
"Sure never lived beneath the sun!
A lizard's body lean and long,

A fish's head, a serpent's tongue,
Its foot with triple claw disjoined;
And what a length of tail behind!

How slow its pace! and then its hue-
Who ever saw so bright a blue?"
"Hold there," the other quick replies;
""Tis green--I saw it with these eyes,
As late with open mouth it lay,
And warmed it in the sunny ray;
Stretched at its ease, the beast I viewed,
And saw it eat the air for food."
"I've seen it, sir, as well as you,
And must again affirm it blue;
At leisure I the beast surveyed,
Extended in the cooling shade."

""Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye."
"Green!" cries the other in a fury;
"Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes?"
"Twere no great loss," the friend replies;
"For if they always serve you thus,
You'll find them but of little use."

So high at last the contest rose,

From words they almost came to blows:
When luckily came by a third ;

To him the question they referred :
And begged he'd tell them, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue.

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"Sirs," cries the umpire, cease your pother;

The creature's neither one nor t'other.

I caught the animal last night,

And viewed it o'er by candle-light :

I marked it well; 'twas black as jet-
You stare-but, sirs, I've got it yet
And can produce it." "Pray, sir, do;
I'll lay my life the thing is blue."
"And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen
The reptile, you'll pronounce him green."
"Well, then, at once to cease the doubt,"
Replies the man, "I'll turn him out,
And when before your eyes I've set him,
If you don't find him black I'll eat him."
He said; and full before their sight
Produced the beast, and lo! 'twas white.

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