TO A FROG.

POOR being! wherefore dost thou fly?
Why seek to shun my gazing eye,
And palpitate with fear?

Indulge a passing trav'ler's sight,
And leap not on in vain affright;
No cruel foe is here.

I would but pause awhile, to view
Thy dappled coat of many a hue;
Thy rapid bound survey;

And see how well thy limbs can glide
Along the sedge-crown'd streamlet's tide,
Then journey on my way.

No savage sage am I, whose pow'r
Shall tear thee from thy rush-wove bow'r,
To feel th' unsparing knife;

No barb'rous schemes this hand shall try,
Nor, to prolong thy death, would I
Prolong thy little life.

Ah! let him not, whose wanton skill
Delights the mangled frog to kill,

The wreath of praise attain !
Philosophy abhors the heart
That prostitutes her sacred art,
To give one being pain.

Monthly Magazine.

THE MOUSE'S PETITION.

Parcere subjectis, et debellare superbos.

OH! hear a pensive captive's pray'r,
For liberty that sighs;

And never let thy heart be shut
Against the pris'ner's cries.

For here forlorn and sad I sit,
Within the wiry grate;

And tremble at th' approaching morn,
Which brings impending fate.

If e'er thy breast with freedom glow'd,
And spurn'd a tyrant's chain,
Let not thy strong impressive force
A free-born mouse detain.—

Oh! do not stain with guiltless blood
Thy hospitable hearth;

Nor triumph that thy wiles betray'd
A prize so little worth.

The scatter'd gleanings of a feast
My scanty meal supply ;

But if thine unrelenting heart
That slender boon deny,

The cheerful light, the vital air,
Are blessings widely given;
Let nature's commoners enjoy
The common gifts of Heaven.

The well-taught philosophic mind
To all compassion gives;
Casts round the world an equal eye,
And feels for all that lives.

Or, if this transient gleam of day
Be ALL of life we share,

Let pity plead within thy breast
That little ALL to spare.

So may thy hospitable board

With health and peace be crown'd, And ev'ry charm of heartfelt ease Beneath thy roof be found.

So when unseen destruction lurks,
Which men like mice may share,
May some kind angel clear thy path,
And break the hidden snare.

Mrs. Barbauld.

STANZAS TO ILL-NATURE.

FIEND abhorr'd, mankind's worst foe! Hence, thy darksome crew amongHaste and with thy jaundic'd brow, Fly the muse's vengeful song.

Oft the hapless muse hath borne,
Deep within the wounded heart,
Fell detraction's venom'd thorn,
Pointed by thy treach'rous art.

Born of envy, nurs'd by spleen,
Rear'd in passion's blighting storm;
Sorrow, anguish, care, chagrin,
Mark thy hideous hateful form.

Fraud and falsehood swell thy train,
Discord is thy sole employ,

Baff'd malice all thy pain,
Seated rancour all thy joy.

Does the muse with sportive pow'r
Strive the gloom of life to cheer,
Thou❜lt arraign the harmless hour,

Stifle peace, and nurture fear.

Does the flow of joy, or ease,
Some endearing scenes supply;
Ev'ry little wish to please
Rouses thy malignity ;—

Humble genius, slender grace,
Small desert, may wait the muse,
Yet if any spark we trace,
Thy severest hate ensues.

Blacken'd by thy foul report,

Mirth is mischief, laughter guile; Snares are seen in ev'ry sport, Perfidy in ev'ry smile.

Still thy arts, malicious fiend,

Still thy hell-born schemes would fail,

Did not oft the valued friend

Listen to thy specious tale.

Vain were each insidious charge,
Effort feeble as unjust,

Did, alas! the world at large

Only hear, and only trust.

Did not oft the secret lie

Break the bond of private peace,

Bid domestic comfort fly,

Love subside, and friendship cease;