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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 a 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 selfsame lion from his cage
Flies to devour him, familh'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.







HERE 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 vifit: and the fair
Preserve it in their bosoms stored,

As with a miser's care.

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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

Poffefs 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


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 hoft

Of this was ever seen,
Or, that contents could justly boast,

So brilliant and so keen.


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


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, Who clips in lengths the brazen thread For him who, chafing every shred,

Gives all an equal fize.

A fifth prepares, exact and round,
The knob with which it must be crown'd;

His follower makes it fast:
And with his mallet and his file
To shape the point, employs awhile

The seventh and the last.

Now therefore, Edipus ! declare
What creature, wonderful, and rare,

A process that obtains
Its purpose with so much ado
At last produces !— tell me true,

And take me for your pains !



ONE ever shared the social feast,
Or as an inmate or a guest,

Beneath the celebrated dome
Where once Sir Isaac had his home,
Who saw not (and with some delight
Perhaps he view'd the novel fight)
How numerous, at the tables there,
The sparrows beg their daily fare.
For there, in every nook and cell
Where such a family may dwell,
Sure as the vernal season comes
Their nests they weave in hope of crumbs,

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