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APPY the man whose heart of such a sort is,

But, lord! how passionate are certain folk!
How like the sea, reflecting ev'ry form,
So placid ! the next instant in a storm,

Dashing against the inoffensive rock;
Mounting towards the skies with such a thunder,
As though it wish'd (the lev'ler!) to bring it under
Sun, moon, and stars, and tear them into tatters
Such paflions verily are serious matters.
Men in morality should ne'er be idle,
But for their passions make a strong curb bridle.
When lofty man doth quarrel with a pin,
In man resides the folly or the fin-

Not in the brass, by which his finger's spitted ; For a small philosophy we find, That, as a pin is not endow'd with mind,

Of malice, calld prepense, Pin stands acquitted: Thus then his awkwardness must bear the blame, And thus to persecute the pin's a shame. Many inanimates, as well as pins, Suffer for others' fooleries and sins. How oft a drunken blockhead blames a post,

That overturns him, breaks his shins, or head; Whose

eyes should certainly have view'd the coast,
And have avoided this same post so dread:
Whereas he should have spar'd his idle cries,
And only blam’d his own two blinking eyes.
A little Welchman, Welchman like indeed,

Hot as a Chian, that is to say,
A Bachelor--and therefore ev'ry need

Was, for subsistence, forc'd to him to pray:
This Bachelor, to satisfy withal

His gullet,
Put into a Imall pot-indeed too small,

A pullet.

The pullet's legs were not to be confin’d,

So out they pok’d themselves, so fleek and white; The Welchman curs'd her legs, with wicked mind,

And push'd them in again, with monstrous fpite. The pullet liking not the pot's embrace, So very warm-indeed a natral case,

Pok'd forth her shrinking legs again, fo fair ; With seeming much uneasiness, in troth, Objecting to her element of broth,

And wishing much to take a little air. The Cambro-Briton, waxing red and hot, And highly foaming too, just like the pot,

Ran to the legs, and shov'd them once more: But, lo! his oaths and labour all were vain; Out pok'd the pullet's boiling legs again;

Which put the Welchman's passions in a roar. What will not mortals, urg'd by rage and fin, do?

Mad at defeat, and with a dev’lish scowl,

He seizes, with ferocity, the fowl, And, full of vengeance, whirls her out at window.






OUNG Lubin was a shepherd boy,

Who watch'd a rigid master's sheep, And many a night was heard to figh,

And many a day was seen to weep. For not a lambķin e'er was lost,

Or wether stray'd to field remote, But Lubin ever was to blame;

Nor careful he, nor penn'd his cote. Yet not a trustier lad was known

To climb the promontory's brow; Nor yet a tend'rer heart e'er beat,

Beside the brook in vale below. From him stern winter's drifting snow,

Its pelting fleet, or frost fevere; Or scorching summer's sultry ray,

Ne'er forc'd a murmur, or ą icar. For, ah! the varying seasons had

To ev'ry hardínip form’d his frame; Though fill his tender feeling heart,

By nature nursid, remain’d the fame. But whither shall the orphan fly,

To meet protection's foitring pow'r ? Oppression waits the future day,

When mis’ry marks the natal hour.
An orphan lad poor

No friend, no relative had he;
His happiest hour was dalh'd with woe,

His mildest treatment-tyranny.

Lubin was,

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It chanc'd that o'er the boundless heath,

One winter's day, his flocks had fpread, . By hunger urg'd, to seek the blade,

That lurk'd beneath its snowy bed., And hous'd, at eve, his fleecy charge,

He, forr'wing, miss'd a fav’rite lamb, That shunnd the long perlifting search,

Nor answer'd to its bleating dam. With heavy heart he shap?d his way,

And told so true, so sad a tale,
That almoft pierc'd the marble breast

Of ruthless Rufus of the vale.
Poor Lubin own'd his flocks had ftray'd,

Own'd he had suffer'd them to go ;
Yes ;-- he had learn’d to pity them,

For often he had hunger'd too: And had he, to their pinching wants,

The unnipp'd neighb'ring bounds deny'd, They sure had droop'das surely, too,

The pitying shepherd boy had dy'd. Then die !--th' unfeeling master said,

And spurn’d him from his closing door ; Which, till he found his fav’rite lamb,

He vow'd should ne'er admit him more. Dark was the night, and o'er the waste

The whistling winds did fiercely blow; And 'gainst his poor

unshelter'd head, With arrowy keenness, came the snow: The fmall thick snow, that Eurus drives

In freezing fury o’er the plain,
And, with unfparing vengeance, scores

The callous face of hardiest fwain.
Yet thus he left his master's house,

And shap'd his fad uncertain way; By man unnotic'd and forsook,

And follow'd but by—trusty TrayPoor trusty Tray! a faithful dog;

Lubia and he were vernicesher:

Suill would they grace each other's fide,

Whate'er the time, whate'er the weather. Unlike to worldly friends were they,

Who separate in fortune's blastThey still were near when fair the sky,

But nearer fill when overcast. When Labin's random step involv'd

His body ’neath the drifted snow, Tray help'd him forth; and when Tray fell,

Poor Lubin dragg’d him from below. Thus, 'midst the horrors of the night,

They enter'd on the houseless heath; Above their heads no comfort broke,

Nor round about, nor underneath. No little cheering star they faw,

To light them on their dreary way; Nor yet the distant twinkling blaze

Of cottage industry saw they. Nay, e'en that most officious guide

Of those who roam and those who mope, Retiring Will o'th' Wisp, refus’d

To trim the lamp of treach'rous hope. Nor parish bell was heard to strike

The hour of “ tardy-gaited night;" No noise--bụt winds and screams of those

Ill-omen’d birds that shun the light. Benumb'd at length his fiff’ning joints,

His tongue to Tray could scarcely speak; His tears congeald to icicles-

His hair hung clatt'ring 'gainst his cheek. As thus he felt his falt'ring limbs

Give omen of approaching death, Aurora from her castern hill

Rush'd forth, and staid his fleeting breath, And show'd to his imperfect fight

The harmless cause of all his woe; His little lambkin, cold and fiff,

Stretch'd on iis bed of glist’ning snow.

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