ort month may chance to do."

Young Orme and Juba then he led
Into a room, in which there were
For each of the two boys a bed,
A table, and a wicker chair.

He lock'd them in, secur'd the key,
That all access to them was stopt;
They from without can nothing see;
Their food is through a sky-light dropt.

A month in this lone chamber Orme
Is sentenc'd during all that time
To view no other face or form
Than Juba's parch'd by Afric clime.

One word they neither of them spoke
The first three days of the first week;
On the fourth day the ice was broke;
Orme was the first that deign'd to speak.

The dreary silence o'er, both glad
To hear of human voice the sound,
The Negro and the English lad
Comfort in mutual converse found.

Of ships and seas, and foreign coast,
Juba can speak, for he has been
A voyager: and Orme can boast
He London's famous town has seen.

In eager talk they pass the day,
And borrow hours ev'n from the night;
So pleasantly time past away,
That they have lost their reckoning quite.

And when their master set them free,
They thought a week was sure remitted,
And thank'd him that their liberty
Had been before the time permitted.

Now Orme and Juba are good friends;
The school, by Orme's example won,
Contend who most shall make amends
For former slights to Afric's son.

THE GREAT GRANDFATHER

My father's grandfather lives still,
His age is fourscore years and ten;
He looks a monument of time,
The agedest of aged men.

Though years lie on him like a load,
A happier man you will not see
Than he, whenever he can get
His great grand-children on his knee.

When we our parents have displeas'd,
He stands between us as a screen;
By him our good deeds in the sun,
Our bad ones in the shade are seen.

His love's a line that's long drawn out,
Yet lasteth firm unto the end;
His heart is oak, yet unto us
It like the gentlest reed can bend.

A fighting soldier he has been--
Yet by his manners you would guess,
That he his whole long life had spent
In scenes of country quietness.

His talk is all of things long past,
For modern facts no pleasure yield--
Of the fam'd year of forty-five,
Of William, and Culloden's field.

The deeds of this eventful age,
Which princes from their thrones have hurl'd,
C