V. RECIPROCAL KINDNESS,

THE PRIMARY LAW OF NATURE.

ANDROCLES, from his injured lord, in dread Of instant death, to Libya's desert fled:

Tired with his toilsome flight, and parch'd with heat, He spied at length a cavern's cool retreat;

But scarce had given to rest his weary frame,

When, hugest of his kind, a lion came:
He roar'd, approaching: but the savage din
To plaintive murmurs changed-arrived within,
And, with expressive looks, his lifted paw
Presenting, aid implored from whom he saw.
The fugitive, through terror at a stand,
Dared not awhile afford his trembling hand,
But bolder grown, at length inherent found
A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound.
The cure was wrought; he wiped the sanious blood,

And firm and free from pain the lion stood.
Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day
Regales his inmate with the parted prey.
Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepared,
Spread on the ground, and with a lion shared.
But thus to live-still lost-sequester'd still-
Scarce seem'd his lord's revenge an heavier ill.
Home! native home! O might he but repair!
He must-he will, though death attends him there.
He goes, and doom'd to perish, on the sands
Of the full theatre unpitied stands :
When, lo! the self-same lion from his cage
Flies to devour him, famish'd into rage.

He flies, but viewing, in his purposed prey,
The man, his healer, pauses on his way,
And, soften'd by remembrance into sweet
And kind composure, crouches at his feet.

Mute with astonishment, the assembly gaze :
But why, ye Romans? Whence your mute amaze?

All this is natural: Nature bade him rend
An enemy; she bids him spare a friend.

VI. THE THRACIAN.

THRACIAN parents at his birth,

Mourn their babe with many a tear,

But, with undissembled mirth,

Place him breathless on his bier.

Greece and Rome, with equal scorn,
"O the savages!" exclaim,
"Whether they rejoice or mourn,
"Well entitled to the name !"

But the cause of this concern,

And this pleasure, would they trace,

Even they might somewhat learn

From the savages of Thrace.

VII. A MANUAL,

MORE ANCIENT THAN THE ART OF PRINTING, AND NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY CATALOGUE.

THERE is a book, which we may call
(Its excellence is such)

Alone a library, though small;

The ladies thumb it much.

Words none, things numerous it contains:
And, things with words compared,
Who needs be told, that has his brains,
Which merits most regard?

Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue

A golden edging boast;
And open'd, it displays to view
Twelve pages at the most.

Nor name, nor title, stamp'd behind,
Adorns its outer part:

But all within 'tis richly lined,
A magazine of art.

The whitest hands, that secret hoard
Oft visit: and the fair

Preserve it, in their bosoms stored,

As with a miser's care.

Thence implements of every size,
And form'd for various use

(They need but to consult their eyes)
They readily produce.

The largest and the longest kind
Possess the foremost page,

A sort most needed by the blind,
Or nearly such, from age.

The full-charged leaf, which next ensues,
Presents, in bright array,

The smaller sort, which matrons use,
Not quite so blind as they.

The third, the fourth, the fifth supply
What their occasions ask,
Who, with a more discerning eye,
Perform a nicer task.

But still, with regular decrease,
From size to size they fall,
In every leaf grow less and less;
The last are least of all.

O! what a fund of genius, pent
In narrow space, is here!
This volume's method and intent

How luminous and clear!

It leaves no reader at a loss

Or posed, whoever reads:

No commentator's tedious gloss,
Nor even index needs.

Search Bodley's many thousands o'er; No book is treasured there,

Nor yet in Granta's numerous store, That may with this compare.

No!—rival none in either host

Of this was ever seen,

Or, that contents could justly boast,
So brilliant and so keen.

VIII. AN ENIGMA.

A NEEDLE, small as small can be,
In bulk and use surpasses me,

Nor is my purchase dear;
For little, and almost for nought,
As many of my kind are bought
As days are in the year.

Yet though but little use we boast,
And are procured at little cost,
The labour is not light;

Nor few artificers it asks,

All skilful in their several tasks,
To fashion us aright.

One fuses metal o'er the fire,
A second draws it into wire,

The shears another plies