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nurse thyself, Trim; and what with thy care of him, and the old woman's, and his boy's, and mine together, we might recruit him again at once, and set him upon his legs..

In a fortnight or three weeks, added my uncle Toby, smiling, he might march. He will never march, an't. please your honour, in this world, said the Corporal. He will march, said my uncle Toby, rising up, from the side of the bed, with one shoe off. An't please your honour, said the Corporal, he will never march but to his grave. He shall march, cried my uncle Toby, marching the foot which had a shoe on, though without advancing an inch, he shall march to his regiment. He cannot stand it, said the Corporal. He shall be supported, said my uncle Toby. He'll drop at last, said the Corporal, and what will become of his boy? He shall not drop said my uncle To by, firmly. A well o'day, do what we can for him, said Trim, maintaining his point, the poor soul will die. shall not die, by H-n, cried my uncle Toby,


-The ACCUSING SPIRIT, which flew up to Heaven's chancery with the oath, blushed as he gave it in: and the RECORDING ANGEL, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out forever.

-My uncle Toby went to his bureau, and put his purse into his pocket, and having ordered the Corporal to go early in the morning for a physician, he went to. bed and fell asleep.

The sun looked bright the morning after, to every eye in the village but Le Fever's and his afflicted son's; the hand of death pressed heavy upon his eyelids, and hardly could the wheel at the cistern turn round its circle, when my uncle Toby, who had got up an hour before his wonted time, entered the Lieutenant's room, and without preface or apology, sat himself down upon the chair upon the bed side, and independently of all modes and customs, opened the curtain, in the manner an old friend and brother officer would have done it, and asked him how he didi -and how he had rested in the night-what was his com plaint-where was his pain-and what he could do to help him? And without giving him time to answer any one of these inquiries, went on and told him of the little plan which he had heen concerting with the Corporal, the night before for him.

-You shall go home directly, Le Fever, said my unele Toby, to my house-and we'll send for a doctor to see what's the matter-and we'll have an apothecary—and the corporal shall be your nurse-and I'll be your servant, Le Fever

There was a frankness in my uncle Toby-not the effect of familiarity, but the cause of it-which let you at once into his soul, and showed you the goodness of his nature; to this there was something in his looks, and voice, and manner, superadded, which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate to come and take shelter under him; so that before my uncle Toby had half finished the kind offers he was making to the father, had the son insensibly pressed up close to his knees, and had taken hold of the breast of his coat, and was pulling it towards him. The blood

and spirit of Le Fever, which were waxing cold and slow within him, and were retreating to their last citadel the heart, rallied back-the film forsook his eyes for a moment, he looked up wishfully in my uncle Toby's face -then cast a look upon his boy.

Nature instantly ebb'd again-the film returned to its place the pulse fluttered, stopped-went on-throbbed -stopped again-moved-stopped-shall I go on ?-No.



I.-The Shepherd and the Pphilospher.
REMOTE from cities, liv'd a swain,
Unvex'd with all the cares of gain.
His head was silver'd o'er with age,
And long experience made him sage;
In summer's heat and winter's cold,
He fed his flock and penn'd the fold:
His hours in cheerful labour flew,
Nor envy nor ambition knew;
His wisdom and his honest fame,
Through all the country rais'd his name.
A deep philosopher, (whose rules
Of moral life were drawn from schools)
The shepherd's homely cottage sought;
And thus explor'd his reach of thought.
Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil
O'er books consum'd the midnight oil?
Hast thou old Greece and Rome survey'd,
And the vast sense of Plato weigh'd?
Hath Socrates thy soul refin'd?
And hast thou fathom'd Tully's mind?
Or, like the wise Ulysses thrown,
By various fates on realms unknown?
Hast thou through many cities stray'd,
Their customs, laws and manners weigh'd ?
The shepherd modestly reply'd,

I ne'er the path of learning try'd;
Nor have I roam'd in foreign parts,
To read mankind, their laws and arts;
For man is practis'd in disguise;
He cheats the most discerning eyes;
Who by that search shall wiser grow,
When we ourselves can never know?
The little knowledge I have gain'd,
Was all from simple nature drain'd;
Hence my life's maxims took their rise-
Hence grew my settled hate to vice.

The daily labours of the bee,
Awake my soul to industry.
Who can observe the careful ant,
And not provide for future want?
My dog, (the truest of his kind)
With gratitude inflames my mind;
I mark his true, his faithful way,
And in my service copy Tray.
In constancy and nuptial love,
I learn my duty from the dove.
The ben, who from the chilly air,
With pious wing protects her care,
And every fowl that flies at large,
Instructs me in a parent's charge,
From ture, too, I take my rule
To shun co tempt and ridicule.
I never with important air,
In conversation overbear:

grave and formal pass for wise,
When men the solemn owl despise;
My tongue within my lips I rein,
For who talks much must talk in vain :
We from the woody torrent fly:
Who listens to the chattering pie?
Nor would I with felonious flight,
By stealth invade my neighbour's right:
Rapacious animals we hate;

Kites, hawks, and wolves deserve their fate.
Do not we just abhorrence find

Against the toad and serpent kind?
But envy, calumny and spite,
Bear stronger venom in their bite;
Thus every object of creation
Can furnish hints for contemplation.
And, from the most minute and mean,
A virtuous mind can morals glean.
Thy fame is just the sage replies:
Thy virtue proves thee truly wise.
Pride often guides the author's pen;
Books as affected are as men:
But he who studies nature's laws,
From certain truth his maxims draws;

And those, without our schools, suffice
To make men moral, good and wise.

II.-Ode to Leven Water.

ON Leven's banks while free to rove
And tune the rural pipe to love,
I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod th' Arcadian plain.
Pure stream! in whose transparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limped source;
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,
With white, round polish'd pebbles spread;
While, lightly pois'd, the scaly brood,
In myriads cleave thy chrystal flood;
The springing trout, in speckl'd pride;
The salmon monarch of the tide ;
The ruthless pike intent on war;
The silver eel, and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bowers of birch and groves of pine,
And hedges flower'd with eglantine.
Still on thy banks so gaily green,
May num'rous herds and flocks be seen:
And lasses, chanting o'er the pail ;
And shepherds, piping in the dale;
And ancient faith, that knows no guile;
And industry embrown'd with toil;
And heart resolv'd and hands prepar'd,
The blessings they enjoy to guard.

III.-Ode from the 19th Psalm.
THE spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue etherial sky,
And spangled heavens a shining frame,
Their great original proclaim.

Th' unwearied sun from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display;
And publishes to ev'ry land,
The work of an Almighty hand.

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