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THE CAUSE WON.

[graphic]

WO neighbours furiously dispute ;
A field - the subject of the suit.

Trivial the spot, yet such the rage
With which the combatants engage,
'Twere hard to tell who covets most
The prize—at whatsoever cost.
The pleadings swell. Words still suffice:
No single word but has its price:
No term but yields some fair pretence
For novel and increased expense.

Defendant thus becomes a name, Which he that bore it may disclaim, Since both, in one description blended, Are plaintiffs—when the suit is ended.

THE SILKWORM.

HE beams of April, ere it goes,
A worm, scarce visible, disclose;

All winter long content to dwell
The tenant of his native shell.
The same prolific season gives
The sustenance by which he lives,
The mulberry leaf, a simple store,
That serves him-till he needs no more !

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For, his dimensions once complete,
Thenceforth none ever sees him eat;
Though till his growing time be past
Scarce ever is he feen to fast.
That hour arrived, his work begins;
He spins and weaves, and weaves and spin s;
Till circle upon circle wound
Careless around him and around,
Conceals him with a veil, though night,
Impervious to the keenest fight.
Thus self-inclosed as in a cask,
At length he finishes his task ;
And, though a worm when he was lost,
Or caterpillar at the most,
When next we see him, wings he wears,
And in papilio-pomp appears;
Becomes oviparous; supplies
With future worms and future flies
The next ensuing year—and dies !
Well were it for the world, if all
Who creep about this earthly ball,
Though shorter lived than most he be,
Were useful in their kind as he.

THE INNOCENT THIEF.

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OT a flower can be found in the fields,

Or the spot that we till for our pleasure,

From the largest to least, but it yields The bee, never wearied, a treasure.

Scarce any she quits unexplored

With a diligence truly exact ; Yet, steal what she may for her hoard,

Leaves evidence none of the fact.

Her lucrative task she pursues,

And pilfers with so much address, That none of their odour they lose,

Nor charm by their beauty the less.

Not thus inoffensively preys

The canker-worm, in-dwelling foe! His voracity not thus allays

The sparrow, the finch, or the crow.

The worm, more expensively fed,

The pride of the garden devours ; And birds peck the feed from the bed,

Still less to be spared than the flowers.

But the with such delicate skill

Her pillage so fits for her use, That the chemist in vain with his still

Would labour the like to produce.

Then grudge not her temperate meals,

Nor a benefit blame as a theft; Since, stole she not all that the steals,

Neither honey nor wax would be left.

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DENNER’S OLD WOMAN.

N this mimic form of a matron in years,
How plainly the pencil of Denner ap-

pears!
The matron herself, in whose old age we see
Not a trace of decline, what a wonder is The !
No dimness of eye, and no cheek hanging low,

, No wrinkle, or deep-furrow'd frown on the brow! Her forehead indeed is here circled around With locks like the riband with which they are

bound; While glossy and smooth, and as soft as the skin Of a delicate peach, is the down of her chin ; But nothing unpleasant, or sad, or severe, Or that indicates life in its winter—is here. Yet all is express’d with fidelity due, Nor a pimple or freckle conceald from the view.

Many fond of new sights, or who cherish a taste For the labours of art, to the spectacle haste. The youths all agree, that could old age inspire The passion of love, hers would kindle the fire, And the matrons with pleasure confess that they see Ridiculous nothing or hideous in thee. The nymphs for themselves scarcely hope a decline, O wonderful woman! as placid as thine. Strange magic of art! which the youth can en

gage To peruse, half enamour'd, the features of age;

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And force from the virgin a figh"of despair, That she when as old shall be equally fair! How great is the glory that Denner has gain'd, Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtain’d.

THE TEARS OF A PAINTER.

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PELLES, hearing that his boy
Had just expired-his only joy!

Altho' the fight with anguish tore him,
Bade place his dear remains before him.
He seized his brush, his colours spread;
And—“ Oh! my child, accept,”—he said,

('Tis all that I can now bestow,) This tribute of a father's woe!Then, faithful to the twofold

part,
Both of his feelings and his art,
He closed his eyes with tender care,
And form’d at once a fellow pair.
His brow with amber locks beset,
And lips he drew not livid yet;
And shaded all that he had done
To a just image of his son.

Thus far is well. But view again
The cause of thy paternal pain !
Thy melancholy task fulfil!
It needs the last, last touches still.
Again his pencil's powers he tries,
For on his lips a smile he spies :
And still his cheek unfaded shows

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