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I've read about a fine estate,
A mansion large and strong;
A view all over Kent and back,
And going for a song.
George Robins knows the very spot,
But how shall I get there?
“ Straight down the Crooked Lane,
“ And all round the Square.”

I've heard there is a Company
All formal and enroll’d,
Will take your smallest silver coin
And give it back in gold.
Of course the office door is mobb’d,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
“And all round the Square."

I've heard about a pleasant land,
Where omelettes grow on trees,
And roasted pigs run, crying out,
6 Come eat me, if you please.”
My appetite is rather keen,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
“ And all round the Square."

Hood.

60.-A WREN'S NEST.
Among the dwellings framed by birds
In field or forest with nice care,
Is none that with the little wren's
In snugness may compare.

No door the tenement requires, And seldom needs a laboured roof; Yet is it to the fiercest sun Impervious, and storm-proof. So warm, so beautiful withal, In perfect fitness for its aim, That to the kind, by special grace, Their instinct surely came. And when for their abodes they seek An opportune recess, The hermit has no finer eye For shadowy quietness. These find, ʼmid ivied abbey walls, A canopy in some still nook ; Others are pent-housed by a brae That overhangs a brook. There to the brooding bird her mate Warbles by fits his low clear song; And by the busy streamlet both Are sung to all day long. Or in sequestered lanes they build, Where, till the flitting bird's return, Her eggs within the nest repose, Like relics in an urn. But still, where general choice is good, There is a better and a best ; And, among fairest objects, some Are fairer than the rest. This, one of those small builders proved In a green covert, where from out The forehead of a pollard oak The leafy antlers sprout ;

· For she who planned the mossy lodge,

Mistrusting her evasive skill,
Had to a primrose looked for aid,
Her wishes to fulfil.
High on the trunk's projecting brow,
And fixed an infant's span above
The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest,
The prettiest of the grove !
The treasure proudly did I show
To some whose minds without disdain
Can turn to little things ; but once
Looked up for it in vain:
'Tis gone—a ruthless spoiler's prey,
Who heeds not beauty, love, or song,
'Tis gone ! (so seemed it) and we grieved,
Indignant at the wrong.
Just three days after, passing by
In clearer light, the moss-built cell
I saw, espied its shaded mouth;
And felt that all was well.
The primrose for a veil had spread
The largest of her upright leaves ;
And thus, for purposes benign,
A simple flower deceives.
Concealed from friends who might disturb
Thy quiet with no ill intent,
Secure from evil eyes and hands
On barbarous plunder bent,
Rest, mother bird ! and when thy young
Take flight, and thou art free to roam,
When withered is the guardian flower,
And empty thy late home,

Think how ye prospered, thou and thine,
Amid the unviolated grove,
Housed near the growing primrose tuft
In foresight, or in love.

Wordsworth.

61..- THE ROSE.
THE rose had been washed, just washed in a shower,

Which Mary to Anna conveyed;
The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower,

And weighed down its beautiful head.
The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet,

And it seemed, to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret

On the flourishing bush where it grew.
I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned,
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!

I snapped it: it fell to the ground.
And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part

Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart

Already to sorrow resigned.
This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloomed with its owner awhile ;
And the tear, that is wiped with a little address,
May be followed perhaps by a smile.

Cowper. 62. — BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

Or Nelson and the North,
Sing the glorious day's renown
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
By each gun the lighted brand
In a bold determined hand,
And the prince of all the land
Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat,
Lay their bulwarks on the brine ;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line;
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath
For a time!

But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rushed
O'er the deadly space between.
“Hearts of Oak!" our captains cried, when each gun,
From its adamantine lips,
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun!

Again! again ! again!
And the ha voc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back! -

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