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THE FLY AND THE SPIDER.
FRESH was the breath of morn; the busy breeze,
And swept the dew-clad blooms with wings so light; Phoebus got up and made a blazing fire,
That gilded every country-house and spire,
On this fair morn, a spider who had set,
"Good morrow, dear Miss Fly," quoth gallant Grim; "Good morrow, Sir," replied Miss Fly to him:
"Walk in, Miss, pray, and see what I'm about:" "I'm much obliged to you, Sir," Miss Fly rejoined, My eyes are both so very good, I find,
That I can plainly see the whole without."
"Fine weather, Miss."-" Yes, very, very fine,"
Quoth cautious Miss,
"I fear you like my pretty head so well,
"You'd keep it for yourself, Sir,-who can tell ?"
"Then, let me squeeze your lovely hand, my dear, "And prove that all your fears are foolish vain." "I've a sore finger, Sir; nay more, I fear
"You really would not let it go again." "Poh poh! child, pray dismiss your idle dread; "I would not hurt a hair of that sweet head."
Well, then, with one kind kiss of friendship meet me:" "La, Sir," quoth Miss, with seeming artless tongue, "I fear our salutation would be long;"
"So loving too, I fear that you would eat me."
THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER.
BESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
NIGHT is the time for rest;
How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose,
Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Down on our own delightful bed!
Night is the time for dreams;
The gay romance of life,
When truth that is, and truth that seems,
Mix in fantastic strife:
Ah! visions, less beguiling far
Than waking dreams by daylight are!
Night is the time for toil;
To plough the classic field,
Night is the time to weep;
To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory, where sleep
Hopes, that were Angels at their birth,
But died when young like things of earth.
Night is the time to watch;
O'er ocean's dark expanse,
To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the home-sick mind All we have loved and left behind.
Night is the time for care;
Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host,
Night is the time to think;
When, from the eye, the soul
Discerns beyond the abyss of night
Night is the time to pray;
Our Saviour oft withdrew
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
Night is the time for Death;
When all around is peace,
From sin and suffering cease,
Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign
ON VISITING A SCENE OF CHILDHOOD.
"I came to the place of my birth, and said, 'The friends of my youth, where are they? and Echo answered, Where are they?'"
LONG years had elapsed since I gazed on the scene, Which my fancy still robed in its freshness of green,The spot where, a school-boy, all thoughtless, I strayed By the side of the stream, in the gloom of the shade.
I thought of the friends, who had roamed with me there, When the sky was so blue, and the flowers were so fair,All scattered!-all sundered by mountain and wave, And some in the silent embrace of the grave !
I thought of the green banks, that circled around, With wild-flowers, and sweet-briar, and eglantine crowned:
I thought of the river, all quiet and bright
As the face of the sky on a blue summer night:
And I thought of the trees, under which we had strayed,
All eager, I hastened the scene to behold,
'Twas a dream!—not a token or trace could I view
And methought the lone river, that murmured along,
I paused and the moral came home to my heart :-
Then, O, let us look-let our prospects allure-
O'er the blightings of change, and the ruins of time.