AURELIA AND THE SPIDER.

The muslin torn, from tears of grief
In vain Aurelia sought relief;
In sighs and plaints she pass'd the day;
The tatter'd frock neglected lay:
While busied at the weaving trade,
A spider heard the sighing maid
And kindly stopping in a trice,
Thus offer'd (gratis) her advice:
"Turn, little girl! behold in me
A stimulus to industry
Compare your woes, my dear, with mine,
Then tell me who should most repine:
This morning, ere you left your room,
The chambermaid's remorseless broom
In one sad moment that destroy'd,
To build which thousands were employ'd!
The shock was great; but as my life
I saved in the relentless strife,
I knew lamenting was in vain,
So patient went to work again.
By constant work, a day or more,
My little mansion did restore:
And if each tear which you have shed
Had been a needle-full of thread,
If every sigh of sad despair
Had been a stitch of proper care,
Closed would have been the luckless rent,
Nor thus the day have been misspent."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

THE REDBREAST AND THE
SPARROW.

Perch'd on a tree, hard by a rural cot,
A redbreast singing cheer'd the humble spot;
A sparrow on the thatch in critic spleen
Thus took occasion to reprove the strain:
"Dost thou," cried he, "thou dull dejected thing,
Presume to emulate the birds of spring?
Can thy weak warbling dare approach the thrush
Or blackbird's accents in the hawthorn bush?
Or with the lark dost thou poor mimic, vie,
Or nightingale's unequal'd melody?
These other birds possessing twice thy fire
Have been content in silence to admire."
"With candor judge," the minstrel bird replied,
"Nor deem my efforts arrogance or pride;
Think not ambition makes me act this part,
I only sing because I love the art:
I envy not, indeed, but much revere
Those birds whose fame the test of skill will bear;
I feel no hope arising to surpass,
Nor with their charming songs my own to class;
Far other aims incite my humble strain.
Then surely I your pardon may obtain,
While I attempt the rural vale to move
By imitating of the lays I love."

[Illustration]

THE POET AND THE COBWEBS.

A bard, whose pen had brought him more
Of fame than of the precious ore,
In Grub Street garret oft reposed
With eyes contemplative half-closed.
Cobwebs around in antique glory,
Chief of his household inventory,
Suggested to his roving brains
Amazing multitude of scenes.

"This batch," said he, "of murde