Crush then the slow, the pilfering race,
So purge thy garden from disgrace."
"What arrogance!" the snail replied,
"How insolent is upstart pride!
Hadst thou not thus, with insult vain,
Provoked my patience to complain,
I had concealed thy meaner birth,
Nor traced thee to the scum of earth;
For scarce nine suns had waked the hours,
To swell the fruit, and paint the flowers,
Since I thy humbler life surveyed,
In base, in sordid guise arrayed;
A hideous insect, vile, unclean,
You dragged a slow and noisome train ;
And from your spider bowels drew
Foul film, and spun the dirty clue.
I own my humble life, good friend;
Snail was I born, and snail shall end.
And what's a butterfly at best?
He's but a caterpillar drest;

And all thy race (a numerous seed)
Shall prove of caterpillar breed."

This fable is intended for a satire upon such persons as being born in humble circumstances, and forming friendships suitable to their station, are afterwards in their own estimation exalted by wealth, and disdain their early and poorer friends.

The butterfly state, is the last stage of that insect's life. She is hatched from an egg, and is at first an unsightly caterpillar; after a certain time she weaves herself a little envelope, in which she appears to sleep; in this state the insect is a chrysalis, but at length, in her last formation, she forces her way out of this case she is then a butterfly. She " sports and flutters in the fields of air" for a few days, lays her eggs, and dies. Gay's butterfly is supposed in his caterpillar shape, to have been the friend and companion of the snail, which he afterwards despises.

THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS.

A hare who, in a civil way,
Complied with every thing, like Gay,
Was known by all the bestial train
Who haunt the wood or graze the plain,

Her care was never to offend;
And every creature was her friend.
As forth she went at early dawn,
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn,
Behind she hears the hunter's cries,
And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies,
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath;
She hears the near advance of death;
She doubles to mislead the hound,
And measures back her mazy round ;
Till, fainting in the public way,
Half dead with fear she gasping lay.
What transport in her bosom grew,
When first the horse appeared in view!
"Let me," says she, "your back ascend,
And owe my safety to a friend.
You know my feet betray my flight;
To friendship every burden's light."

The horse replied, " Poor honest puss,
It grieves my heart to see you thus:
Be comforted, relief is near ;
For all your friends are in the rear.”

She next the stately bull implored,
And thus replied the mighty lord:
"Since every beast alive can tell
That I sincerely wish you well,
I may, without offence, pretend
To take the freedom of a friend.
Love calls me hence; a favourite cow
Expects me near yon barley-mow;
And when a lady's in the case,
You know, all other things give place.
To leave you thus might seem unkind;
But see the goat is just behind.”

The goat remarked "her pulse was high,
Her languid head, her heavy eye:
My back, says he, may do you harm:
The sheep's at hand, and wool is warm.”
The sheep was feeble, and complained
"His sides a load of wool sustained;"
Said he was slow, confessed his fears;
"For hounds eat sheep as well as hares."
She now the trotting calf addressed,
To save from death a friend distressed.

In this important care engage?
Older and abler passed you by ;

How strong are those! how weak am I !
Should I presume to bear you hence,
Those friends of mine may take offence.
Excuse me, then; you know my heart;
But dearest friends, alas must part.
How shall we all lament! Adieu;

For see the hounds are just in view."

This fable is meant to afford a lesson in what is called a knowledge of the world.-To show that the feeble and dependent are too often deserted at their utmost need. To be feeble, and to need protection is an unhappy state; but it is necessary that some men should exist in it, that the benevolence of others may have objects to employ itself upon. We should avoid the state

of dependence by all the means in our power, but we should never forsake others when we can afford them protection and favour.

EXTRACT FROM THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY,

Oft may the spirits of the dead descend,
To watch the silent slumbers of a friend:
To hover round his evening walk unseen,
And hold sweet converse on the dusky green;
To hail the spot where once their friendship grew,
And heaven and nature opened to their view!
Oft when he trims his cheerful hearth and sees
A social circle emulous to please;

There may
these gentle guests delight to dwell,
And bless the scene they loved in life so well!

Oh thou with whom my heart was wont to share
From reason's dawn each pleasure and each care!
With whom, alas! I fondly hope to know
The humble walks of happiness below;
If thy blest nature now unites above
An angel's pity with a brother's love;
Still o'er my life preserve thy mild control,
Correct my views, and elevate my soul:
Grant me thy peace and purity of mind,
Devout yet cheerful, active yet resigned;

Grant me like thee whose heart knew no disguise,
Whose blameless wishes never aimed to rise,
To meet the changes time and chance present,
With modest dignity, and calm content.
When thy last breath, e'er nature sunk to rest,
Thy meek submission to thy God expressed,
When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled,
A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed;
What to thy soul its glad assurance gave,
Its hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave?
The sweet remembrance of unblemished youth,
The inspiring voice of innocence and truth.

Hail memory, hail! in thy exhaustless mine
From age to age, unnumbered treasures shine!
Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey,
And place and time are subject to thy sway!
Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone,
The only pleasures we can call our own.
Lighter than air, Hope's summer visions fly,
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky;
If but a beam of sober reason play,
Lo! Fancy's fairy frostwork melts away!
But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power,
Snatch the rich relics of a well spent hour?
These when the trembling spirit takes her flight,
Pour round her path a stream of living light,
And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest,
Where virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest.

The Pleasures of Memory, a very agreeable poem, was written by Samuel Rogers, Esq. Mr. Rogers still lives (1842) in England, at a very advanced age; he is a banker and a man of fortune, and is now, considered as a father of living English poets. Lord Byron, Mr. Fox, Thomas Moore, and many other eminent men, have regarded his friendship as a high privilege. The tenderness of Mr. Rogers' heart is manifest throughout the preceding lines from the Pleasures of Memory. They are principally addressed to a deceased brother-by the sentiments they express

the heart is made better.

The reader well knows that memory is that faculty by which knowledge acquired at one time, is preserved, and may be brought up in the mind at all times future to that in which it was first acquired. Without memory man would be like an infant all his

days. Memory is not only of infinite use, but is a source of infinite pleasure. The memory of good actions, may be called the "testimony of a good conscience." The memory of good friends is sometimes a consolatian for the loss of them. The memory, or "the remembrance of the just," who are no more," is blest" by those who survive them. Many have believed that the good, when they are removed to another life, still remember those they loved in this, and that they are permitted to exert a watchful care over the friends they knew in this world. The author of The Pleasures of Memory expresses such a belief.

THE ALPS AT DAY BREAK.

The sun-beams strike the azure skies,
And line with light the mountains brow:
With hounds and horns the hunters rise,
And chase the roe-buck through the snow.
From rock to rock with giant bound,
High on their iron poles they pass:
Mute, lest the air convulsed by sound,
Rend from above, a frozen mass.

The goats wind slow their wonted way,
Up craggy steeps, and ridges rude;
Marked by the wild wolf for his prey,
From desert cave or hanging wood.
And while the torrent thunders loud,
And as the echoing cliffs reply;

The hut peeps o'er the morning cloud,
Perched like an eagle's nest on high.

The region of the Alps is the abode of a secluded but vigorous and adventurous race of men, whose favourite occupations are hunting, and scaling their snow covered mountains. In the as

cent of these they use long poles pointed with iron, which aid them in their dangerous passages. Mr. Gray says "there are passes in the Alps, where the guides tell you to move on with speed, and say nothing, lest the air agitated by the voice should loosen the snows above," and the detached masses should instantly destroy the travellers.