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And knew the glow-worm by his spark;
So stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus right eloquent.

“Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,
As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song;
For 'twas the self-same Power divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.”
The songster heard his short oration,
And warbling out his approbation,
Released him as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.

Hence jarring sectaries may learn
Their real interest to discern;
That brother should not war with brother,
And worry and devour each other;
But sing and shine by sweet consent,
Till life's poor transient night is spent,
Respecting, in each other's case,
The gifts of nature and of grace.

Those Christians best deserve the name,
Who studiously make peace their aim;
Peace both the duty and the prize
Of him that creeps, and him that flies.

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THE PINEAPPLES AND THE BEE

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5

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The Pineapples, in triple row,
Were basking hot, and all in blow;
A Bee of most discerning taste
Perceived the fragrance as he passed;
On eager wing the spoiler came,
And searched for crannies in the frame,
Urged his attempt on every side,
To every pane his trunk applied;
But still in vain, the frame was tight,
And only pervious to the light;
Thus having wasted half the day,
He trimmed his flight another way.

“Methinks," I said, in thee I find
The sin and madness of mankind.
To joys forbidden man aspires,

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Consumes his soul with vain desires;
Folly the spring of his pursuit,
And disappointment all the fruit.
While Cynthio ogles, as she passes,
The nymph between two chariot glasses,
She is the Pineapple, and he
The silly unsuccessful Bee.
The maid, who views with pensive air
The show-glass fraught with glittering ware,
Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets,
But sighs at thought of empty pockets;

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Like thine, her appetite is keen,
But ah, the cruel glass between!”

Our dear delights are often such,
Exposed to view but not to touch;
The sight our foolish heart inflames,
We long for pineapples in frames;
With hopeless wish one looks and lingers;
One breaks the glass, and cuts his fingers;
But they whom Truth and Wisdom lead,
Can gather honey from a weed.

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VERSES

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE ON

THE ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDEZ°

I
I am monarch of all I

survey,
My right there is none to dispute,
From the centre all round to the sea,

I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O Solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face°?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,

Than reign in this horrible place.

II

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone,

Never hear the sweet music of speech,

I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain,

My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man,

Their tameness is shocking to me.

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III

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Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestowed upon man, O had I the wings of a dove,

How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age,

And be cheered by the sallies of youth.

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IV
Religion ! what treasure untold

Resides in that heavenly word!
More precious than silver and gold,

Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell

These valleys and rocks never heard,
Never sighed at the sound of a knell,

Or smiled when a Sabbath appeared.

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V

Ye winds, that have made me your sport,

Convey to this desolate shore

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Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

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VI

How fleet is a glance of the mind !

Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land,

In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

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VII

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But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,

The beast is laid down in his lair; Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place,

And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

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