DEATH OF MR. ROBERT LEVET.

Well tried, through many a varying year,
See Levet to the grave descend,
Officious, innocent, sincere,

Of every friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills affection's eye,
Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind,
Nor, letter'd arrogance, deny

Thy praise to merit unrefined.

When fainting nature call'd for aid,
And hovering death prepared the blow,
His vigorous remedy display'd

The power of art without the show.

In misery's darkest cavern known,
His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan,
And lonely want retired to die.

No summons, mock'd by chill delay,
No petty gain, disdained by pride;
The modest wants of every day,
The toil of every day supplied.

His virtues walk'd their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure th' Eternal Master found
The single talent well employ'd.

The busy day, the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by,

His frame was firm, his powers were bright,
Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

Then, with no fiery, throbbing pain,
No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,
And freed his soul the nearest way.

JAMES MERRICK.
(1720-1769.)

THE CAMELEON.

OFT has it been my lot to mark
A proud, conceited, talking spark;
With eyes that hardly served at most
To guard their master 'gainst a post:

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Two travellers of such a cast,
As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed,
And on their way, in friendly chat,
Now talk'd of this, and then of that;
Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter,
Of the Cameleon'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 disjoin'd;
And what a length of tail behind!
How slow its pace! and then its hue—
Who ever saw so fine a blue?"
"Hold there," the other quick replies,
"'Tis green, I saw it with these eyes,
As late with open mouth it lay,
And warm'd it in the sunny ray;
Stretch'd at its ease the beast I view'd,
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 survey'd
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 of but 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 referr'd,
And begg'd he'd tell them, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue.

"Sirs," cries the umpire, cease your pother; The creature's neither one nor t'other.

ODE TO LEVEN WATER.

I caught the animal last night,
And view'd it o'er by candle-light;
I mark'd it well-'t was 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 ease 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 !-'t was white.
Both stared, the man look'd wondrous wise-
"My children," the Cameleon cries
(Then first the creature found a tongue),
"You all are right, and all are wrong;
When next you talk of what you view,
Think others see as well as you;
Nor wonder, if you find that none
Prefers your eyesight to his own.”

TOBIAS G. SMOLLETT.
(1721-1771.)

ODE TO LEVEN WATER.

ON Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,
I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod the Arcadian plain.

Pure stream, in whose transparent wave

My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source,
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,

With white round polish'd pebbles spread;
While, lightly poised, the scaly brood
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood;
The springing trout in speckled pride;
The salmon, monarch of the tide;
The ruthless pike, intent on war,
The silver eel, and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bowers of birch and groves of pine,
And hedges flower'd with eglantine.

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Still on thy banks so gaily green,
May numerous herds and flocks be seen.
And lasses chanting o'er the pail,
And shepherds piping in the dale;
And ancient faith that knows no guile,
And industry embrown'd with toil;
And hearts resolved and hands prepared,
The blessings they enjoy to guard!

REV. JOHN LOGAN.
(1748-1788.)

THE CUCKOO.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove,
Thou messenger of spring!
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.

The school-boy wandering through the wood,
To pull the primrose gay,

Starts the new voice of spring to hear

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird, thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year.

Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee;
We'd make with joyful wing
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring.

SONG-GO, YOUTH BELOVED.

MRS. AMELIA OPIE.
(1769-1853.)

SONG GO, YOUTH BELOVED.

Go, youth beloved, in distant glades
New friends, new hopes, new joys to find,
Yet sometimes deign, 'midst fairer maids,
To think on her thou leav'st behind.
Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share,
Must never be my happy lot,

But thou mayst grant this humble prayer,
Forget me not, forget me not!

Yet should the thought of my distress
Too painful to thy feelings be,
Heed not the wish I now express,
Nor ever deign to think on me;
But, oh, if grief thy steps attend,
If want, if sickness be thy lot,
And thou require a soothing friend;
Forget me not, forget me not!

MRS. BARBAULD.

(1743-1825.)

LIFE.

LIFE! we've been long together
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear;
Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear ;

Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time,

Say not 'Good Night,' but in some brighter clime Bid me 'Good Morning.'

GEORGE COLMAN.

(1762-1836.)

THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.

A MAN in many a country town, we know,
Professes openly with death to wrestle;
Entering the field against the grimly foe,
Armed with a mortar and a pestle.

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