Where the deep nest his thirst supplied;
Whilst, placed securely at its side,
The tender birds with courage stout,
Sat watching what he was about;
With lapping tongue the nest he drained,
Till scarce a single drop remained.
His thirst allayed, he turned his eye
Round on the feathered family!
He knew they were delicious meat;
And hunger prompted him to eat!
But, no departing with a bound,
He left the nestlings safe and sound;
Intending ('tis but fair to say)
To call and drink another day.

A prying jackal saw the feast,

And thus addressed the generous beast:
"Great Sir! I really could have laughed
To see how you enjoyed your draught,
But wondered much that you should spare
The second treat, those tit-bits there,
Till I perceived the curious fact,
That selfishness produced the act:
For should you kill the mother's joy,
Your own supplies you would destroy;
In vain were then the liquid store,
The childless bird would bring no more,
And you'd discover to your sorrow
No pleasant drinking-trough to-morrow!"
"Shame!" said the Lion, "shame to find
Base motives for a deed that's kind;
Thanks to the mother's thoughtful care
For yonder birds, whose draught I share,
I feel, when'er my thirst I slake
That in their safety I partake!
But do not they partake in mine?
Aye, sirrah, think on't when you dine,
For should you ever dare molest
The tenants of that happy nest,
Your bones should whiten on the plain,
And brother Jackals plead in vain.
But for the future, learn from hence,
That false surmise gives foul offence;
Learn, too, that various orders stand,
United by affection's band;
That every being needs in turn
The aid of mutual concern:

This helps to make our dwellings sure,
Our labours sweet, our lives secure."

Thus in the self-same course we view Our interest and our duty to.-M.

THE TORTOISE, THE FROG, AND THE DUCK.

A FABLE.

ALONG the fields one rainy day,
An aged Tortoise took his way:
His shell, like armour, on him leant
So heavily where'er he went,

That those who slightly looked at him
Had said he did not stir a limb;

But though his steps were short and few,

He had his walk, and liked it too.

Hop, skip, and jump! Now who goes there?
A speckled Frog, as light as air,
Deriding, as a piteous case,

The quiet creature's humble pace:
And lo, with empty folly tossed,
Full many a time his path he crossed;
Then stopping, panting, staring, said,
"You've got a house upon your head!
For if you were but fresh and free,
I'd bid you try a leap with me!"
Then head o'er heels the coxcomb rose,
Descending near his neighbour's nose.
"Boast not," the gentle Tortoise cried,
"The gifts that Goodness has supplied;
Nor seek, by conduct light and vain,
To cause less gifted creatures pain;
I, too, have blessings kindly lent,
And trust me brother I'm content;
My shell, for instance, like a roof,
Makes my old body weather-proof,
And guards me wheresoe'er I go,
From strong attack and secret foe."

Why, as to weather," said the Frog,
I live in all, rain, sunshine, fog,
You've seen me dance along your path,
Now you shall see me take a bath!"
With that uprose the heartless fool,
Next moment splashing in the pool;
Quick moved his legs and arms; I ween
A better swimmer ne'er was seen:

Then on the bank the boaster sat;

"Now Tortoise ! What d'ye think of that?"
A hungry Duck, who wished to sup,
Just at that moment waddled up,

And ere his sentence had its fill,

The Frog was quivering in her bill!

O may I still contented be

With what kind heaven hath given me :
And though I do not seem so blest
As others, think my lot the best.
But more than all, I will refrain,

My lips from mockery and disdain.-M.

THE CROCUS'S SOLILOQUY.
Down in my solitude under the snow,
Where nothing cheering can reach me;
Here, without light to see how to grow,
I'll trust to nature to teach me.

I will not despair, nor be idle, nor frown,
Locked in so gloomy a dwelling;

My leaves shall run up, and my roots shall run down,
While the bud in my bosom is swelling.

Soon as the frost will get out of my bed,
From this cold dungeon to free me,

I will peer up with my little bright head,-
All will be joyful to see me.

Then from my heart will young buds diverge,
As rays of the sun from their focus;
I from the darkness of earth will emerge
A happy and beautiful Crocus!

Gaily arrayed in my yellow and green,
When to their view I have risen,
Will they not wonder how one so serene
Came from so dismal a prison?

Many, perhaps, from so simple a flower,
This little lesson may borrow;—
Patient to-day, through its gloomiest hour,
We come out the brighter to-morrow!

BLACKWOOD'S Magazine.

THE RICH MAN AND HIS GOODS;

A FABLE.

I KNEW a man who rich had grown
In goods laid up on earth alone:
Though having an abundant store,

He toiled and groaned for more and more.
I marked him in a busy scene ;-

His hand was strong, his vision keen.
That hand has nothing now to do;

That eye is closed to mortal view.
Time was, I knew his habits well,
And what I noted I will tell.

His spacious premises were full
Of engines for preparing wool

In all its stages, till its form

Was that of flannel, thick and warm.

"And here," methought, "midst winter's cold,

Is comfort for the poor and old:

These well-wrought blankets may be spread,

On many a needy neighbour's bed:

How blest is industry, when found
To circulate its blessings round!"

But such was not AVARO's plan;
He, wealthy, saving, frugal man,
With shadows floating in his brain,
Of some imaginary gain,

Laid up his goods. 'Twas thought by some,
They would be his for years to come.
"E'en as they might, let others live,
He would not sell, he could not give!"
Possessions, with increasing years,
Brought pains and jealousies, and fears;
Yet lucre was a fragrant thing,
Though gathered from a noisome spring;
And when his other senses failed
The love of having still prevailed.
Avaro died; and people said
The richest man in town was dead,
While heirs advanced, with eager toil,
To ransack and divide the spoil!
But, lo! on searching, what a scene,
Of loss, corruption, and chagrin !
The Moth had found delicious fare,
And Rust and Mildew had been there.
"Try other chests!" But these, forsooth,
Large, empty cases, told the truth,

That pick-lock Thieves had borne away
All that was saved from base decay;
Whilst rags and tatters (foul remains!)
Proclaimed the churl, and showed his gains.
And is not this a picture true,

Of what those sordid creatures do,
Who learn to gather pelf, like dust;
And in uncertain riches trust;
Who closely grind, as with a stone,
Their servants' faces and their own;

Who only give to suffering need,

When pride or interest prompts the deed?
Who for their ill-matched daughters buy
A coronet and misery;

Helping a fop his debts to pay,
Or, thief-like, gamble all away;

Till not a trace remains to show

Of former gains, but shame and woe!

That man's effects are nothing worth, Whose treasure only is on earth. Gifts may turn curses: means mis-spent, Become their owner's punishment. Be kind, though provident;-in brief, Beware the Moth, the Rust, the Thief.-M.

THE CATARACT OF LODORE.

THE following singular poem was written by ROBERT SOUTHEY, Esq., the present PortLaureate. Lodore is a celebrated waterfall on the banks of Derwent Water, in Curberland.

HOW DOES THE WATER COME DOWN AT LODORE!

HERE it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Here smoking and frothing,
Its tumult and wrath in,

It hastens along, conflicting, strong,
Now striking and raging,

As if a war waging,
Its caverns and rocks among.

Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and flinging,
Showering and springing,
Eddying and whisking,

Spouting and frisking,

Twining and twisting,
Around and abound,
Collecting, disjecting,
With endless rebound;
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in;
Confounding, astounding,

Dizzing and deafening the ear with its sound.