Now dust and sun does every one Most terribly annoy; Complaints begun, soon every one Elbows his neighbour boy.

Not now the joyous laugh goes round, We shout not now huzzah; A sadder group may not be found Than we returning are.

THE ORANGE

The month was June, the day was hot, And Philip had an orange got.

The fruit was fragrant, tempting, bright, Refreshing to the smell and sight; Not of that puny size which calls Poor customers to common stalls, But large and ma.s.sy, full of juice, As any Lima can produce.

The liquor would, if squeezed out, Have fill'd a tumbler thereabout--

The happy boy, with greedy eyes, Surveys and re-surveys his prize.

He turns it round, and longs to drain, And with the juice his lips to stain.

His throat and lips were parch'd with heat; The orange seem'd to cry, _Come eat_.

He from his pocket draws a knife-- When in his thoughts there rose a strife, Which folks experience when they wish, Yet scruple to begin a dish, And by their hesitation own It is too good to eat alone.

But appet.i.te o'er indecision Prevails, and Philip makes incision.

The melting fruit in quarters came-- Just then there pa.s.sed by a dame-- One of the poorer sort she seem'd, As by her garb you would have deem'd-- Who in her toil-worn arms did hold A sickly infant ten months old; That from a fever, caught in spring, Was slowly then recovering.

The child, attracted by the view Of that fair orange, feebly threw A languid look--perhaps the smell Convinc'd it that there sure must dwell A corresponding sweetness there, Where lodg'd a scent so good and rare-- Perhaps the smell the fruit did give Felt healing and restorative-- For never had the child been grac'd To know such dainties by their taste.

When Philip saw the infant crave, He straitway to the mother gave His quarter'd orange; nor would stay To hear her thanks, but tript away.

Then to the next clear spring he ran To quench his drought, a happy man!

THE YOUNG LETTER-WRITER

_Dear Sir, Dear Madam_, or _Dear Friend_, With ease are written at the top; When those two happy words are penn'd, A youthful writer oft will stop,

And bite his pen, and lift his eyes, As if he thinks to find in air The wish'd-for following words, or tries To fix his thoughts by fixed stare.

But haply all in vain--the next Two words may be so long before They'll come, the writer, sore perplext, Gives in despair the matter o'er;

And when maturer age he sees With ready pen so swift inditing, With envy he beholds the ease Of long-accustom'd letter-writing.

Courage, young friend; the time may be, When you attain maturer age, Some young as you are now may see You with like ease glide down a page.

Ev'n then when you, to years a debtor, In varied phrase your meanings wrap, The welcom'st words in all your letter May be those two kind words at top.

THE THREE FRIENDS

(_Text of 1818_)

Three young maids in friendship met; Mary, Martha, Margaret.

Margaret was tall and fair, Martha shorter by a hair; If the first excell'd in feature, Th' other's grace and ease were greater; Mary, though to rival loth, In their best gifts equall'd both.

They a due proportion kept; Martha mourn'd if Margaret wept; Margaret joy'd when any good She of Martha understood; And in sympathy for either Mary was outdone by neither.

Thus far, for a happy s.p.a.ce, All three ran an even race, A most constant friendship proving, Equally belov'd and loving; All their wishes, joys, the same; Sisters only not in name.

Fortune upon each one smil'd, As upon a fav'rite child; Well to do and well to see Were the parents of all three; Till on Martha's father crosses Brought a flood of worldly losses, And his fortunes rich and great Chang'd at once to low estate; Under which o'erwhelming blow Martha's mother was laid low; She a hapless orphan left, Of maternal care bereft, Trouble following trouble fast, Lay in a sick bed at last.

In the depth of her affliction Martha now receiv'd conviction, That a true and faithful friend Can the surest comfort lend.

Night and day, with friendship tried, Ever constant by her side Was her gentle Mary found, With a love that knew no bound; And the solace she imparted Sav'd her dying' broken-hearted.

In this scene of earthly things Not one good unmixed springs.

That which had to Martha proved A sweet consolation, moved Different feelings of regret In the mind of Margaret.

She, whose love was not less dear, Nor affection less sincere To her friend, was, by occasion Of more distant habitation, Fewer visits forc'd to pay her, When no other cause did stay her; And her Mary living nearer, Margaret began to fear her, Lest her visits day by day Martha's heart should steal away.

That whole heart she ill could spare her, Where till now she'd been a sharer.

From this cause with grief she pined, Till at length her health declined.

All her chearful spirits flew, Fast as Martha gather'd new; And her sickness waxed sore, Just when Martha felt no more.

Mary, who had quick suspicion Of her alter'd friend's condition, Seeing Martha's convalescence Less demanded now her presence, With a goodness, built on reason, Chang'd her measures with the season; Turn'd her steps from Martha's door, Went where she was wanted more; All her care and thoughts were set Now to tend on Margaret.

Mary living 'twixt the two, From her home could oft'ner go, Either of her friends to see, Than they could together be.

Truth explain'd is to suspicion Evermore the best physician.

Soon her visits had the effect; All that Margaret did suspect, From her fancy vanish'd clean; She was soon what she had been, And the colour she did lack To her faded cheek came back.

Wounds which love had made her feel, Love alone had power to heal.

Martha, who the frequent visit Now had lost, and sore did miss it, With impatience waxed cross, Counted Margaret's gain her loss: All that Mary did confer On her friend, thought due to her.

In her girlish bosom rise Little foolish jealousies, Which into such rancour wrought, She one day for Margaret sought; Finding her by chance alone, She began, with reasons shown, To insinuate a fear Whether Mary was sincere; Wish'd that Margaret would take heed Whence her actions did proceed.

For herself, she'd long been minded Not with outsides to be blinded; All that pity and compa.s.sion, She believ'd was affectation; In her heart she doubted whether Mary car'd a pin for either.

She could keep whole weeks at distance, And not know of their existence, While all things remain'd the same; But, when some misfortune came, Then she made a great parade Of her sympathy and aid,-- Not that she did really grieve, It was only _make-believe_, And she car'd for nothing, so She might her fine feelings shew, And get credit, on her part, For a soft and tender heart.

With such speeches, smoothly made, She found methods to persuade Margaret (who, being sore From the doubts she'd felt before, Was prepared for mistrust) To believe her reasons just; Quite destroy'd that comfort glad, Which in Mary late she had; Made her, in experience' spite, Think her friend a hypocrite, And resolve, with cruel scoff, To renounce and cast her off.

See how good turns are rewarded!

She of both is now discarded, Who to both had been so late Their support in low estate, All their comfort, and their stay-- Now of both is cast away.

But the league her presence cherish'd, Losing its best prop, soon perish'd; She, that was a link to either, To keep them and it together, Being gone, the two (no wonder) That were left, soon fell asunder;-- Some civilities were kept, But the heart of friendship slept; Love with hollow forms was fed, But the life of love lay dead:-- A cold intercourse they held After Mary was expell'd.

Two long years did intervene Since they'd either of them seen, Or, by letter, any word Of their old companion heard,-- When, upon a day, once walking, Of indifferent matters talking, They a female figure met;-- Martha said to Margaret, "That young maid in face does carry A resemblance strong of Mary."

Margaret, at nearer sight, Own'd her observation right: But they did not far proceed Ere they knew 'twas she indeed.

She--but ah! how chang'd they view her From that person which they knew her!

Her fine face disease had scarr'd, And its matchless beauty marr'd:-- But enough was left to trace Mary's sweetness--Mary's grace.

When her eye did first behold them, How they blush'd!--but, when she told them How on a sick bed she lay Months, while they had kept away, And had no inquiries made If she were alive or dead;-- How, for want of a true friend, She was brought near to her end, And was like so to have died, With no friend at her bed-side;-- How the constant irritation, Caus'd by fruitless expectation Of their coming, had extended The illness, when she might have mended,-- Then, O then, how did reflection Come on them with recollection!

All that she had done for them, How it did their fault condemn!

But sweet Mary, still the same, Kindly eas'd them of their shame; Spoke to them with accents bland, Took them friendly by the hand; Bound them both with promise fast, Not to speak of troubles past; Made them on the spot declare A new league of friendship there; Which, without a word of strife, Lasted thenceforth long as life.

Martha now and Margaret Strove who most should pay the debt Which they ow'd her, nor did vary Ever after from their Mary.

ON THE LORD'S PRAYER

I have taught your young lips the good words to say over, Which form the pet.i.tion we call the Lord's Pray'r, And now let me help my dear child to discover The meaning of all the good words that are there.

"Our Father," the same appellation is given To a parent on earth, and the parent of all-- O gracious permission, the G.o.d that's in heaven Allows his poor creatures him Father to call.

To "hallow his name," is to think with devotion Of it, and with reverence mention the same; Though you are so young, you should strive for some notion Of the awe we should feel at the Holy One's name.

His "will done on earth, as it is done in heaven,"

Is a wish and a hope we are suffer'd to breathe, That such grace and favour to us may be given, Like good angels on high we may live here beneath.

"Our daily bread give us," your young apprehension May well understand is to pray for our food; Although we ask bread, and no other thing mention, G.o.d's bounty gives all things sufficient and good.