the horse to help him,
If he could--
But not a single bit,
The other would.
"I ask," said the poor beast,
"A little pity--
Help me at least,
To reach the city."
The horse refused,
And got his due,
For the ass died.
The farmer's man
Stripped off the skin of honest Ben,
And made the horse, whom they espied,
Drag on the skin and the cart beside.

MORAL.

'Tis wise to lend our aid
To others in distress,
We often thus are made
The means of happiness.
The churlish, unkind man
His neighbor's death may cause,
And have to help his family,
Through taxes and the laws.

[Illustration]

THE ASTROLOGER WHO FELL
INTO A WELL.

An astrologer, of high ambition,
While star-gazing fell down
Into a well. "Sage gentleman,"
Remarked the people of the town,
"How did you think to read the stars, old man,
When you cannot preserve your own position."
This adventure in itself, without going further,
Might serve as a lesson, to most of mankind,
For of us mortals, a certain part inclines,
To the belief, that, with the help of mind,
The book of Destiny may easily be read,
But this book, by Homer and his disciples sung,
What is it called but _Chance_, by ancients,
And by us Christians named Providence instead.
Now in Chance there can no science be,
Or why should it be called by them _Chance_--
And things uncertain, who knows in advance?
If all depends upon the fixed decree,
Of Him who does all things, and nothing does unwisely.
How should we read his will,
And know that which from us he would conceal?
Wherefore watch the stars so nicely,
To know how to avoid inevitable woe;
Or how, in future times, our fate will go;
To make us, in the midst of pleasure, sad,
Or with predicted evil, drive us mad,
Convert all blessings into curses dire?
Is this the knowledge to which we aspire,
Is it an error or a crime thus to believe
That future destiny can thus be known?
In place of star-gazing above our head,
Let us confide ourselves to the Great One.
The firmament exists, the stars go on their way,
And the sun shines upon us every day;
And every day, the day is lost in night,
Without our knowing aught else from the sight.
That the seasons come, the crops are ripe,
And in what wood we should look out for snipe,
And some few other things, but for the change
Of day to night, by which the world doth range,
It has not aught to do with Destiny.
Quacks, and ye compilers of horoscopes,
Quit all the courts of princes i