_T. B. Read_

LXI

_THE MOUSE'S PEt.i.tION_

Oh, hear a pensive prisoner's prayer, For liberty that sighs; And never let thine heart be shut Against the wretch's cries!

For here forlorn and sad I sit, Within the wiry grate; And tremble at the approaching morn, Which brings impending fate.

If e'er thy breast with freedom glowed, And spurned a tyrant's chain, Let not thy strong oppressive force A free-born mouse detain!

Oh, do not stain with guiltless blood Thy hospitable hearth!

Nor triumph that thy wiles betrayed A prize so little worth.

The scattered gleanings of a feast My frugal meals supply; But if thy unrelenting heart That slender boon deny,--

The cheerful light, the vital air, Are blessings widely given; Let Nature's commoners enjoy The common gifts of heaven.

Beware, lest in the worm you crush, A brother's soul you find; And tremble lest thy luckless hand Dislodge a kindred mind.

Or if this transient gleam of day Be _all_ the life we share, Let pity plead within thy breast, That little _all_ to spare.

So may thy hospitable board With health and peace be crowned; And every charm of heartfelt ease Beneath thy roof be found.

So when destruction works unseen, Which man, like mice, may share, May some kind angel clear thy path, And break the hidden snare.

_A. L. Barbauld_

LXII

_THE GRa.s.sHOPPER_

Happy insect! what can be In happiness compared to thee?

Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine!

Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill; 'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Nature's self's thy Ganymede.

Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, Happier than the happiest king!

All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee, All that summer hours produce, Fertile made with early juice: Man for thee does sow and plough; Farmer he and landlord thou!

Thou dost innocently joy, Nor does thy luxury destroy.

The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he.

Thee, country minds with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripened year: Thee Phoebus loves and does inspire; Phoebus is himself thy sire.

To thee of all things upon earth, Life is no longer than thy mirth.

Happy insect! happy thou, Dost neither age nor winter know: But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among (Voluptuous and wise withal, Epicurean animal) Sated with the summer feast Thou retir'st to endless rest.

_A. Cowley_

LXIII

_THE SHEPHERD'S HOME_

My banks they are furnished with bees, Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottoes are shaded with trees, And my hills are white over with sheep.

I seldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all bordered with moss, Where the harebells and violets blow.

Not a pine in the grove is there seen, But with tendrils of woodbine is bound; Not a beech's more beautiful green, But a sweet-briar entwines it around.

Not my fields in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold.

I have found out a gift for my fair, I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me such plunder forbear, She will say 'twas a barbarous deed; For he ne'er could be true, she averred, Who would rob a poor bird of its young; And I loved her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

_W. Shenstone_

LXIV

_THE LORD OF BURLEIGH_

In her ear he whispers gaily, 'If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watched thee daily, And I think thou lov'st me well.'

She replies, in accents fainter, 'There is none I love like thee.'

He is but a landscape painter, And a village maiden she.

He to lips that fondly falter, Presses his without reproof; Leads her to the village altar, And they leave her father's roof.

'I can make no marriage present; Little can I give my wife: Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life.'

They by parks and lodges going, See the lordly castles stand: Summer woods about them blowing, Made a murmur in the land.

From deep thought himself he rouses, Says to her that loves him well, 'Let us see these handsome houses Where the wealthy n.o.bles dwell.'

So she goes, by him attended, Hears him lovingly converse, Sees whatever fair and splendid Lay betwixt his home and hers; Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and ordered gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady, Built for pleasure and for state.

All he shows her makes him dearer: Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage growing nearer, Where they twain will spend their days.

O, but she will love him truly!

He shall have a cheerful home; She will order all things duly, When beneath his roof they come.

Thus her heart rejoices greatly, Till a gateway she discerns.

With armorial bearings stately, And beneath the gate she turns; Sees a mansion more majestic Than all those she saw before; Many a gallant gay domestic Bows before him at the door.

And they speak in gentle murmur, When they answer to his call, While he treads with footsteps firmer, Leading on from hall to hall.

And while now she wonders blindly, Nor the meaning can divine, Proudly turns he round and kindly, 'All of this is mine and thine.'

Here he lives in state and bounty, Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, Not a lord in all the county Is so great a lord as he.

All at once the colour flushes Her sweet face from brow to chin: As it were with shame she blushes, And her spirit changed within.

Then her countenance all over, Pale again as death did prove: But he clasped her like a lover, And he cheered her soul with love.

So she strove against her weakness, Though at times her spirits sank; Shaped her heart with woman's meekness, To all duties of her rank: And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such, That she grew a n.o.ble lady, And the people loved her much.