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,
Comply'd 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-mouth'd thunder flies,
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath;
She hears the near advance of death;

She doubles to mislead the hound,
mazy round;

And measures back her

Till, fainting in the public way,

Half dead with fear she gasping lay.

What transport in her bosom grew,
When first the horse appear'd in view!
"Let me," says she, 66 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 reply'd, "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 implor'd,
And thus reply'd 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'd unkind ;
But see the goat is just behind."

The goat remark'd "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 complain'd
"His sides a load of wool sustain’d ;”
Said he was slow, confess'd his fears ;
"For hounds eat sheep as well as hares."
She now the trotting calf address'd,
To save from death a friend distress'd.
"Shall I," says he, " of tender age,
In this important care engage?
Older and abler pass'd 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 dependant 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 dependance 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 hoped 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, ere 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 agrecable poem, was written by Samuel Rogers, Esq. Mr. Rogers still lives (1827) 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 brotherby the sentiments they express the heart is made better.

The reader well knows that Memory is that faculty of the mind 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 consolation 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