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Even "Glover's" works I cannot put my frozen hands upon;

Though ever since I lost my "Foote," my "Bunyan" has been gone.
My Hoyle" with "Cotton" went oppressed; my "Taylor," too,


must fail;

To save my 66
Goldsmith" from arrest, in vain I offered " Bayle."
I "Prior" sought, but could not see the "Hood" so late in front;
And when I turned to hunt for "Lee," O! where was my "Leigh

I tried to laugh, old care to tickle, yet could not "Tickle" touch;
And then, alack! I missed my " Mickle," and surely Mickle's much.
'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed, my sorrows to excuse,
To think I cannot read my Reid," nor even use my "Hughes; "
My classics would not quiet lie, a thing so fondly hoped;
Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry, my "Livy" has eloped.


My life is ebbing fast away; I suffer from these shocks,
And though I fixed a lock on "Gray," there's gray upon my locks;
I'm far from "Young," am growing pale, I see my "Butler" fly;
And when they ask about my ail, 't is "Burton " I reply.

They still have made me slight returns, and thus my griefs divide;
For O! they cured me of my "Burns," and eased my "Akenside."
But all I think I shall not say, nor let my anger burn,
For, as they never found me "Gay," they have not left me Sterne."


3. THE MAGPIE AND THE MONKEY.-Yriarte. Born, 1760; died, 1791.

"DEAR Madam, I pray," quoth a Magpie, one day,

To a Monkey, who happened to come in her way, -
"If you 'll but come with me

To my snug little home in the trunk of a tree,
I'll show you such treasures of art and vertu,
Such articles, old, mediaval, and new,

As a lady of taste and discernment like you

Will be equally pleased and astonished to view;

In an oak-tree hard by I have stowed all these rarities;

And if you'll come with me, I'll soon you show where it is."

The Monkey agreed at once to proceed,

And, hopping along at the top of her speed,

To keep up with the guide, who flew by her side,

As eager to show as the other to see,

Presently came to the old oak-tree;
When, from a hole in its mighty bole,

In which she had cunningly hidden the whole,
One by one the Magpic drew,

And displayed her hoard to the Monkey's view:
A buckle of brass, some bits of glass,

A ribbon dropped by a gypsy lass;

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A tattered handkerchief edged with lace,
The haft of a knife, and a tooth-pick case;
An inch or so of Cordelier's rope,
A very small cake of Castilian soap,
And a medal blessed by the holy Pope;
Half a cigar, the neck of a jar,

A couple of pegs from a cracked guitar;
Beads, buttons and rings, and other odd things,
And such as my hearers would think me an ass, if I
Tried to enumerate fully or classify.

At last, having gone, one by one, through the whole,
And carefully packed them again in the hole,
Alarmed at the pause, and not without caws,
The Magpie looked anxiously down for applause.
The monkey, meanwhile, with a shrug and a smile,
Having silently eyed the contents of the pile,
And found them, in fact, one and all, very vile,
Resolved to depart; and was making a start,
When, observing the movement with rage and dismay,
The Magpie addressed her, and pressed her to stay:
"What, sister, I pray, have you nothing to say,
In return for the sight that I've shown you to-day?
Not a syllable? hey? I'm surprised!
well I may,
That so fine a collection, with nothing to pay,
Should be treated in such a contemptuous way.
I looked for applause, as a matter of right,
And certainly thought that you'd prove more polite."

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At length, when the Magpie had ceased to revile,
The Monkey replied, with a cynical smile:
"Well, Ma'am, since my silence offends you," said she,
"I'll frankly confess that such trifles possess,
Though much to your taste, no attraction for me;
For though, like yourself, a collector of pelf,
Such trash, ere I'd touch it, might rot on a shelf;
And I'd not, by Saint Jago, out of my way go
A moment to pick up so vile a farrago.
To the digging of roots, and the prigging of fruits,
I strictly confine my industrial pursuits;
And whenever I happen to find or to steal
More than will serve for a moderate meal, -
For my appetite's small, and I don't eat a deal, -
In the pouches or craws which hang from my jaws,
And which I contract or distend at my pleasure,
I safely deposit the rest of my treasure,
And carry it home, to be eaten at leisure.

In short, Ma'am, while you collect rubbish and rags,
A mass of chiffonerie not worth possessing, -

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I gather for use, and replenish my bags
With things that are really a comfort and blessing, -
A reserve, if I need them, for future subsistence,
Adapted to lengthen and sweeten existence."

The Monkey's reply for I must, if I'm able,
Elicit some practical hint from the fable
Suited the Magpie, and suits just as well any
Quarterly, monthly, or weekly miscellany,
Whose contents exhibit so often a hash,
Oddly compounded, of all kinds of trash,
That I wonder, whenever I chance to inspect them,
How editors have the bad taste to select them.

4 THE RICH MAN AND THE POOR.-Translated, by Dr. Bowring, from the Rus

sian of Khemnitzer.

So goes the world; if wealthy, you may call
This friend, that brother, friends and brothers all;


Though you are worthless, witless, never mind it ;
You may have been a stable-boy, what then?
"T is wealth, good Sir, makes honorable men.
You seek respect, no doubt, and you will find it.
But if you 're poor, Heaven help you! though your sire
Had royal blood within him, and though you
Possessed the intellect of angels, too,

the world will ne'er inquire

"T is all in vain ;

On such a score;
why should it take the pains?
"T is easier to weigh purses, sure, than brains.
I once saw a poor fellow, keen and clever,

he paid a man a visit,
and no one ever

Witty and wise;
And no one noticed him,
Gave him a welcome. (6
Strange!" cried I; "whence is it?"
He walked on this side, then on that,
He tried to introduce a social chat;
Now here, now there, in vain he tried;
Some formally and freezingly replied,
And some
Said, by their silence, "Better stay at home."
A rich man burst the door,
As Croesus rich, I 'm sure

He could not pride himself upon his wit;
And as for wisdom, he had none of it;
He had what 's better, he had wealth,
What a confusion! - all stand up erect;
These crowd around to ask him of his health.

These bow in honest duty and respect;

And these arrange a sofa or a chair,
And these conduct him there.

"Allow me, Sir, the honor!" then a bow
Down to the earth. Is 't possible to show
Meet gratitude for such kind condescension?
The poor man hung his head,
And to himself he said,

"This is, indeed, beyond my comprehension!" Then looking round,

One friendly face he found,

And said, "Pray tell me, why is wealth preferred
To wisdom?" "That's a silly question, friend!"
Replied the other; "have you never heard,

A man may lend his store

Of gold or silver ore,

But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend?"


THE Yankee boy, before he 's sent to school,
Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool,
The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye
Turns, while he hears his mother's lullaby;
His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it,
Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it;
And in the education of the lad

No little part that implement hath had.
His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings
A growing knowledge of material things.

Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art,
His chestnut whistle and his shingle dart,
His elder pop-gun with its hickory rod,
Its sharp explosion and rebounding wad,
His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone
That murmurs from his pumpkin-stalk trombone,
Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeed
His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed,
His wind-mill, raised the passing breeze to win,
His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin ;
Or, if his father lives upon the shore,
You'll see his ship, "beam ends upon the floor,"
Full rigged, with raking masts, and timbers staunch,
And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.

Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife driven
Ere long he'll solve you any problem given;
Make any jim-crack, musical or mute,
A plough, a couch, an organ or a flute;
Make you a locomotive or a clock,

Cut a canal, or build a floating-dock,
Or lead forth Beauty from a marble block;
Make anything, in short, for sea or shore,
From a child's rattle to a seventy-four;
Make it, said I?-Ay, when he undertakes it,
He'll make the thing and the machine that makes it.

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And when the thing is made, whether it be
To move on earth, in air, or on the sea;
Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide,
Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or slide;
Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring,
Whether it be a piston or a spring,
Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass,
The thing designed shall surely come to pass;
For, when his hand 's upon it, you may know
That there's go in it, and he'll make it go.

8. CITY MEN IN THE COUNTRY.-Oliver Wendell Holmes.

COME back to your mother, ye children, for shame,
Who have wandered like truants for riches or fame!
With a smile on her face and a sprig in her cap,
She calls you to feast from her bountiful lap.

Come out from your alleys, your courts, and your lanes, And breathe, like young eagles, the air of our plains; Take a whiff from our fields, and your excellent wives Will declare it's all nonsense insuring your lives.

Come you of the law, who can talk, if you please,
Till the man in the moon will allow it's a cheese,
And leave "the old lady that never tells lies"
To sleep with her handkerchief over her eyes.

Ye healers of men, for a moment decline
Your feats in the rhubarb and ipecac line;
While you shut up your turnpike, your neighbors can go
The old roundabout road to the regions below.

You clerk, on whose ears are a couple of pens,
And whose head is an ant-hill of units and tens,
Though Plato denies you, we welcome you still
As a featherless biped, in spite of your quill.

Poor drudge of the city! how happy he feels
With the burrs on his legs and the grass at his heels;
No dodger behind, his bandannas to share, -
No constable grumbling, "You must n't walk there!"

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