To this the bird seven words did say: "Why not do it, Sir, to-day?"

HOME DELIGHTS

To operas and b.a.l.l.s my cousins take me, And fond of plays my new-made friend would make me.

In summer season, when the days are fair, In my G.o.dmother's coach I take the air.

My uncle has a stately pleasure barge, Gilded and gay, adorn'd with wondrous charge; The mast is polish'd, and the sails are fine, The awnings of white silk like silver shine; The seats of crimson sattin, where the rowers Keep time to music with their painted oars; In this on holydays we oft resort To Richmond, Twickenham, or to Hampton Court.

By turns we play, we sing--one baits the hook, Another angles--some more idle look At the small fry that sport beneath the tides, Or at the swan that on the surface glides.

My married sister says there is no feast Equal to sight of foreign bird or beast.

With her in search of these I often roam: My kinder parents make me blest at home.

Tir'd of excursions, visitings, and sights, No joys are pleasing to these home delights.

THE COFFEE SLIPS

Whene'er I fragrant coffee drink, I on the generous Frenchman think, Whose n.o.ble perseverance bore The tree to Martinico's sh.o.r.e.

While yet her colony was new, Her island products but a few, Two shoots from off a coffee-tree He carried with him o'er the sea.

Each little tender coffee slip He waters daily in the ship, And as he tends his embryo trees, Feels he is raising midst the seas Coffee groves, whose ample shade Shall screen the dark Creolian maid.

But soon, alas! his darling pleasure In watching this his precious treasure Is like to fade,--for water fails On board the ship in which he sails.

Now all the reservoirs are shut, The crew on short allowance put; So small a drop is each man's share, Few leavings you may think there are To water these poor coffee plants;-- But he supplies their gasping wants, Ev'n from his own dry parched lips He spares it for his coffee slips.

Water he gives his nurslings first, Ere he allays his own deep thirst; Lest, if he first the water sip, He bear too far his eager lip.

He sees them droop for want of more;-- Yet when they reached the destin'd sh.o.r.e, With pride th' heroic gardener sees A living sap still in his trees.

The islanders his praise resound; Coffee plantations rise around; And Martinico loads her ships With produce from those dear-sav'd slips.[1]

[Footnote 1: The name of this man was Desclieux, and the story is to be found in the Abbe Raynal's History of the Settlements and Trade of the Europeans in the East and West Indies, book XIII.]

THE DESSERT

With the apples and the plums Little Carolina comes, At the time of the dessert she Comes and drops her new last curt'sy; Graceful curt'sy, practis'd o'er In the nursery before.

What shall we compare her to?

The dessert itself will do.

Like preserves she's kept with care, Like blanch'd almonds she is fair, Soft as down on peach her hair, And so soft, so smooth is each Pretty cheek as that same peach, Yet more like in hue to cherries; Then her lips, the sweet strawberries, Caroline herself shall try them If they are not like when nigh them; Her bright eyes are black as sloes, But I think we've none of those Common fruit here--and her chin From a round point does begin, Like the small end of a pear; Whiter drapery she does wear Than the frost on cake; and sweeter Than the cake itself, and neater, Though bedeck'd with emblems fine, Is our little Caroline.

TO A YOUNG LADY, ON BEING TOO FOND OF MUSIC

Why is your mind thus all day long Upon your music set; Till reason's swallow'd in a song, Or idle canzonet?

I grant you, Melesinda, when Your instrument was new, I was well pleas'd to see you then Its charms a.s.siduous woo.

The rudiments of any art Or mast'ry that we try, Are only on the learner's part Got by hard industry.

But you are past your first essays; Whene'er you play, your touch, Skilful, and light, ensures you praise: All beyond that's too much.

Music's sweet uses are, to smooth Each rough and angry pa.s.sion; To elevate at once, and soothe: A heavenly recreation.

But we misconstrue, and defeat The end of any good; When what should be our casual treat, We make our constant food.

While, to th' exclusion of the rest, This single art you ply, Your n.o.bler studies are supprest, Your books neglected lie.

Could you in what you so affect The utmost summit reach; Beyond what fondest friends expect, Or skilful'st masters teach:

The skill you learn'd would not repay The time and pains it cost, Youth's precious season thrown away, And reading-leisure lost.

A benefit to books we owe, Music can ne'er dispense; The one does only _sound_ bestow, The other gives us _sense_.

TIME SPENT IN DRESS

In many a lecture, many a book, You all have heard, you all have read, That time is precious. Of its use Much has been written, much been said.

The accomplishments which gladden life, As music, drawing, dancing, are Encroachers on our precious time; Their praise or dispraise I forbear.

They should be practis'd or forborne, As parents wish, or friends desire: What rests alone in their own will Is all I of the young require.

There's not a more productive source Of waste of time to the young mind Than dress; as it regards our hours My view of it is now confin'd.

Without some calculation, youth May live to age and never guess, That no one study they pursue Takes half the time they give to dress.

Write in your memorandum-book The time you at your toilette spend; Then every moment which you pa.s.s, Talking of dress with a young friend:

And ever when your silent thoughts Have on this subject been intent, Set down as nearly as you can How long on dress your thoughts were bent.

If faithfully you should perform This task, 'twould teach you to repair Lost hours, by giving unto dress Not more of time than its due share.

THE FAIRY

Said Ann to Matilda, "I wish that we knew If what we've been reading of fairies be true.

Do you think that the poet himself had a sight of The fairies he here does so prettily write of?

O what a sweet sight if he really had seen The graceful t.i.tania, the Fairy-land Queen!

If I had such dreams, I would sleep a whole year; I would not wish to wake while a fairy was near.-- Now I'll fancy that I in my sleep have been seeing A fine little delicate lady-like being, Whose steps and whose motions so light were and airy, I knew at one glance that she must be a fairy.

Her eyes they were blue, and her fine curling hair Of the lightest of browns, her complexion more fair Than I e'er saw a woman's; and then for her height, I verily think that she measur'd not quite Two feet, yet so justly proportion'd withal, I was almost persuaded to think she was tall.

Her voice was the little thin note of a sprite-- There--d'ye think I have made out a fairy aright?

You'll confess, I believe, I've not done it amiss."

"Pardon me," said Matilda, "I find in all this Fine description, you've only your young sister Mary Been taking a copy of here for a fairy."

CONQUEST OF PREJUDICE

Unto a Yorkshire school was sent A Negro youth to learn to write, And the first day young Juba went All gaz'd on him as a rare sight.

But soon with alter'd looks askance They view his sable face and form, When they perceive the scornful glance Of the head boy, young Henry Orme.

He in the school was first in fame: Said he, "It does to me appear To be a great disgrace and shame A black should be admitted here."

His words were quickly whisper'd round, And every boy now looks offended; The master saw the change, and found That Orme a mutiny intended.