My sorrows I then might assuage, In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. Religion! what treasure untold Lies hid in that heavenly word! More precious than silver or gold, Or all that this earth can afford, But the sound of the church-going bell, These valleys and rocks never heard, Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell, Or smiled when a sabbath appear'd. Ye winds that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial, endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me? O, tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see. How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compar'd with the speed of its flight, The tempest himself lags behind And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair. But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, And I to my cabin repair. And mercy, encouraging thought, Gives even affliction a grace, TO MARY UNWIN. MARY! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they drew, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things, That ere through age or woe I shed my wings, I may record thy worth with honour due, TO THE SAME. HE twentieth year is well nigh past, THE Since first our sky was overcast ; Ah would that this might be the last, Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow— 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more, For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream ; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, For could I view nor them nor thee, Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st And still to love, though pressed with ill, With me is to be lovely still, But ah! by constant heed I know How oft the sadness that I show And should my future lot be cast THE CHAMELEON. BY JAMES MERRICK.-1720 1766. [AT once amusing in verse and instructive in moral, this popular fable deserves a place in our volume; and although not of the highest character of poetry, yet it commends itself to selection by its old association with our school days and its favourite place in all Juvenile Speakers, its author, moreover, was a distinguished scholar. He took orders and became tutor to Lord North, but was obliged to abandon hope of preferment from delicate health. He is author of several hymns and a version of the Psalms. ] FT has it been my lot to mark O FTA A proud, conceited, talking spark, And acquiesce in his decision. Two travellers of such a cast, A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, How slow its pace! and then its hue- ""Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye." So high at last the contest rose, From words they almost came to blows: To him the question they referred : "Sirs," cries the umpire, cease your pother; The creature's neither one nor t'other. I caught the animal last night, And viewed it o'er by candle-light : I marked it well; 'twas black as jet- |