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So fine was never yet the cloth,
No smith so hard his iron did beat,
T'other with canker all to fret.
The knotty oak, and wainscoat old,
Within doth eat the silly worm; Even so a mind in envy rolled
Always within itself doth burn.
Thus everything that nature wrought
Within itself his hurt doth bear; No outward harm need to be sought,
Where enemies be within so near.
THE KING OF THE CROCODILES.- Southey.
“ Now, woman, why without your veil ?
“O, I have lost my darling boy,
“O, I have lost my darling child,
THE KING OF THE CROCODILES.
“ He did not venture in to swim,
“Now take me in your boat, I pray,
“ The King of the Crocodiles never does wrong,
" And to the King I will complain,
The man replied, — “No, woman, no,
“ Then lend me now your little boat,
The woman she leapt into the boat,
The King of the Crocodiles there was seen, -
The woman shook every limb with fear,
She fell upon her bended knee,
“ A crocodile ate him for his food;
“I know that you, sire! never do wrong,
“ You have done well,” the King replies,
“I have no tail to strike and slay,
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. — Wolfe.
Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O’er the grave where our hero was buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet, nor in shroud, we bound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock told the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe' was suddenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone in his glory.
THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN. - Southey.
Sweet to the morning traveller
The song amid the sky,
The skylark soars on high.
And cheering to the traveller
The gales that round him play,
Along his noontide way.
And when beneath the unclouded sun
Full wearily toils he,
A soothing melody.
And when the evening light decays,
And all is calm around,
In the distant sheep-bell's sound.