Though I never could read, yet lettered I'm found; Though blind, I enlighten; though loose, I am bound, I'm always in black, and I'm always in white; I'm grave and I'm gay, I am heavy and light-- In form too I differ,--I'm thick and I'm thin, I've no flesh and no bones, yet I'm covered with skin; I've more points than the compa.s.s, more stops than the flute; I sing without voice, without speaking confute.

I'm English, I'm German, I'm French, and I'm Dutch; Some love me too fondly, some slight me too much; I often die soon, though I sometimes lives ages, And no monarch alive has so many pages.

HANNAH MORE.

_A Riddle_

(The Vowels.)

We are little airy creatures, All of different voice and features; One of us in gla.s.s is set, One of us you'll find in jet.

T'other you may see in tin, And the fourth a box within.

If the fifth you should pursue, It can never fly from you.

JONATHAN SWIFT.

_A Riddle_

(The Letter H.)

'Twas whispered in Heaven, 'twas muttered in h.e.l.l, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confess'd; 'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder; 'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath, Attends him at birth and awaits him in death, Presides o'er his happiness, honor and health, Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.

In the heaps of the miser 'tis h.o.a.rded with care, But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir; It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crowned; Without it the soldier and seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!

In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'er in the whirlwind of pa.s.sion be drowned; 'Twill soften the heart; but though deaf be the ear, It will make it acutely and instantly hear.

Set in shade, let it rest like a delicate flower; Ah! breathe on it softly, it dies in an hour.

CATHERINE M. FANSHAWE.

_Feigned Courage_

Horatio, of ideal courage vain, Was flourishing in air his father's cane, And, as the fumes of valour swell'd 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 slaughter'd Grecians made!

And now my 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 aim'd in fancy a sufficient stroke To fix the fate of Crecy or Poiotiers (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 valour flown, That in the tented field so late was shown?

Achilles weeps, great Hector hangs his head, And the Black Prince goes whimpering to bed.

CHARLES AND MARY LAMB.

_Baucis and Philemon_

In ancient times, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality.

It happened on a winter night, As authors of the legend write, Two brother hermits, saints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Disguised in tattered garments went To a small village down in Kent; Where, in the stroller's canting strain, They begged from door to door in vain, Tried every tone might pity win; But not a soul would take them in.

Our wandering saints, in woeful state, Treated at this unG.o.dly rate, Having through all the village pa.s.sed, To a small cottage came at last Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman, Call'd in the neighborhood Philemon; Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pa.s.s the night; And then the hospitable sire Bid goody Baucis mend the fire; While he from out the chimney took A flitch of bacon off the hook, And freely from the fattest side Cut out large slices to be fried; Then stepped aside to fetch them drink, Filled a large jug up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what is wonderful!) they found 'Twas still replenished to the top, As if they ne'er had touched a drop.

The good old couple were amazed, And often on each other gazed; For both were frightened to the heart, And just began to cry, "What art!"

Then softly turned aside to view Whether the lights were burning blue.

"Good folks, you need not be afraid, We are but saints," the hermits said; "No hurt shall come to you or yours: But for that pack of churlish boors, Not fit to live on Christian ground, They and their houses shall be drowned; Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, And grow a church before your eyes."

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft, The roof began to mount aloft, Aloft rose every beam and rafter, The heavy wall climbed slowly after; The chimney widened and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist, And there stood fastened to a joist; Doomed ever in suspense to dwell, 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

A wooden jack which had almost Lost by disuse the art to roast, A sudden alteration feels, Increased by new intestine wheels; The jack and chimney, near allied, Had never left each other's side: The chimney to a steeple grown, The jack would not be left alone; But up against the steeple reared, Became a clock, and still adhered.

The groaning chair began to crawl, Like a huge snail along the wall; There stuck aloft in public view, And with small change a pulpit grew.

The cottage, by such feats as these, Grown to a church by just degrees, The hermits then desired the host To ask for what he fancied most.

Philemon, having paused awhile, Returned them thanks in homely style: "I'm old, and fain would live at ease; Make me the parson, if you please."

Thus happy in their change of life Were several years this man and wife.

When on a day which proved their last, Discoursing on old stories past, They went by chance, amidst their talk, To the churchyard to take a walk; When Baucis hastily cried out, "My dear, I see your forehead sprout!"

"But yes! Methinks I feel it true; And really yours is budding too.

Nay,--now I cannot stir my foot; It feels as if 'twere taking root!"

Description would but tire my muse; In short they both were turned to yews.

JONATHAN SWIFT.

_The Lion and the Cub_

A lion cub, of sordid mind, Avoided all the lion kind; Fond of applause, he sought the feasts Of vulgar and ign.o.ble beasts; With a.s.ses all his time he spent, Their club's perpetual president.

He caught their manners, looks, and airs; An a.s.s in everything but ears!

If e'er his Highness meant a joke, They grinn'd applause before he spoke; But at each word what shouts of praise; "Goodness! how natural he brays!"

Elate with flattery and conceit, He seeks his royal sire's retreat; Forward and fond to show his parts, His Highness brays; the lion starts.

"Puppy! that curs'd vociferation: Betrays thy life and conversation: c.o.xcombs, an ever-noisy race, Are trumpets of their own disgrace."

"Why so severe?" the cub replies; "Our senate always held me wise!"

"How weak is pride," returns the sire: "All fools are vain when fools admire!

But know, what stupid a.s.ses prize, Lions and n.o.ble beasts despise."

JOHN GAY.

_Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog_

Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wondrous short-- It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a Man, Of whom the world might say, That still a G.o.dly race he ran-- Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes: The naked every day he clad,-- When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a Dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.

This Dog and Man at first were friends; But when a pique began, The Dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the Man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the Dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a Man!

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every Christian eye: And while they swore the Dog was mad, They swore the Man would die.