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But, with a chirrup clear and strong,
Dispersing all his dream,
The windings of the stream.
Beau trotted far before,
And plunging, left the shore.
Impatient swim to meet
The treasure at my feet.
“Shall hear of this thy deed;
“Of man's superior breed; “But chief myself I will enjoin,
“Awake at duty's call, “To show a love as prompt as thine " To Him who gives me all."
3. LUCY GRAY;
And, when I crossed the wild,
The solitary child.
She dwelt on a wide moor,
Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
Will never more be seen.
“To-night will be a stormy night
“ You to the town must go; “ And take a lantern, child to light
“Your mother through the snow.” " That, Father! will I gladly do;
“ 'Tis scarcely afternoon“ The minster-clock has just struck two,
“ And yonder is the Moon!”
And snapped a faggot-band;
The lantern in her hand.
With many a wanton stroke
That rises up like smoke.
She wandered up and down;
But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
To serve them for a guide.
That overlooked the moor;
A furlong from their door.
They wept-and turning homeward, cried,
6 In heaven we all shall meet;" When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.
They tracked the footmarks small;
And by the long stone wall;
The marks were still the same;
And to the bridge they came. They followed from the
bank Those footmarks one by one, Into the middle of the plank;
And further there were none !
Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;
Upon the lonesome wild.
And never looks behind;
4.-BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
And the lantern dimly burning.
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
As we bitterly thought of the morrow.
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
And we far away on the billow!
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun,
That the foe was sullenly firing.
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
Wolfe. 5.-ON A FAVORITE CAT DROWNED IN A
TUB OF GOLD FISHES.
'Twas on a lofty vase's side
The azure flowers that blow,
Gazed on the lake below.
The velvet of her paws,
She saw, and purr'd applause.
The genii of the stream:
Betrayed a golden gleam.
With many an ardent wish,
What cat's averse to fish?
Nor knew the gulf between.
She tumbled headlong in!