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THE BEGGAR MAN. -- Miss Lamb,

ABJECT, stooping, old, and wan,
See yon wretched beggar man;
Once a father's hopeful heir,
Once a mother's tender care,
When too young to understand,
He but scorched his little hand,
By the candle’s flaming light
Attracted, dancing, spiral, bright;
Clasping fond her darling round,
A thousand kisses healed the wound.
Now, abject, stcoring, old, and wan,
No mother tends the beggar man.

Ther rought too good for him to wear,
With cherub face and flaxen hair,
In fancy's choicest gauds arrayed,
Cap of lace, with rose to aid,
Milk-white hat with feather blue,
Shoes of red, and coral too,
With silver bells to please his ear,
And charm the frequent, readly tear.
Now, abject, stooping, old, and wan,
Neglected is the beggar man.



See the boy advance in age,
And learning spreads her useful page;
In vain ! for giddy pleasure calls,
And shows the marbles, tops, and balls.
What's learning to the charms of play?
The indulgent tutor must give way.
A heedless, wilful dunce, and wild,
The parents' fondness spoiled the child;
The youth in vagrant courses ran.
Now, abject, stooping, old, and wan,
Their fondling is the beggar man.


O, HUSH thee, my baby, thy sire was a knight,
Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;
The woods and the glens, from the towers which we

They all are belonging, dear baby, to thee.

O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,
It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;
Their bows would be bended, their blades would be

Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.

0, lush thee, my baby, the time will soon come When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum; Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.

THE REAPER'S CHILD. --- Miss Lamb.

If you go to the field where the reapers now bind

The sheaves of ripe corn, there a fine little lass, Only three months of age, by the hedge-row you'll find

Left alone by its mother upon the low grass.

While the mother is reaping, the infant is sleeping;

Not the basket that holds the provision is less, By the hard-working reaper, than this little sleeper,

Regarded, till hunger does on the babe press.

Then it opens its eyes, and it utters loud cries,

Which its hard-working mother afar off will hear; She comes at its calling, she quiets its squalling,

And feeds it, and leaves it again without fear.

When you were as young as this field-nursed daugh.

ter, You were fed in the house and brought up on the


So tenderly watched, thy fond mother thought her

Whole time well bestowed in nursing of thee.


HORATIO, of ideal courage vain,
Was flourishing in air his father's cane,
And, as the fumes of valor swelled his pate,
Now thought himself this hero, and now that;
" And now," he cried, "I will Achilles be;
My sword I brandish ; see the Trojans flee!




Now I'll be Hector, when his angry blade
A lane through heaps of slaughtered Grecians made
And now, by deeds still braver, I'll evince
I am no less than Edward the Black Prince.
Give way, ye coward French !” As thus he spoke,
And aimed in fancy a sufficient stroke
To fix the fate of Cressy or Poictiers,
(The Muse relates the hero's fate with tears,)
He struck his milk-white hand against a nail,
Sees his own blood, and feels his courage fail.
Ah! where is now that boasted valor flown,
That in the tented field so late was shown?
Achilles weeps, great Hector hangs the head,
And the Black Prince goes whimpering to bed.


Busy, curious, thirsty fly,
Drink with me, and drink as I;
Freely welcome to my cup,
Couldst thou sip and sip it up;
Make the most of life you may,
Life is short and wears away,
Both alike are mine and thine,
Hastening quick to thy decline;
Thine 's a summer, mine no more,
Though repeated to threescore;
Threescore summers, when they 're gone,
Will appear as short as one.

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