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THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY.

NO FABLE.

The noon was shady, and soft airs

Swept Ouse's silent tide,
When, scap'd from literary cares,

I wander'd on his side.

My spaniel, prettiest of his race,

And high in pedigree, (Two nymphs* adorn'd with ev'ry grace

That spaniel found for me.)

Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds,

Now starting into sight,
Pursu'd the swallow o'er the meads

With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse display'd

His lilies newly blown;
Their beauties I intent survey'd,

And one I wished my own.

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With cane extended far I sought
To steer it close to land;

* Sir Robert Gunning's daughters.

THE DOG AND THE WATER LILY.

275

But still the prize, though nearly caught,

Escap'd my eager hand.
Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains

With fix'd considerate face,
And puzzling set his puppy brains

To comprehend the case.

But with a cherup clear and strong,

Dispersing all his dream,
I thence withdrew, and follow'd long

The windings of the stream.
My ramble ended, I return'd;

Beau trotting far before,
The floating wreath again discern'd,

And plunging left the shore.

I saw him with that lily cropp’d,

Impatient swim to meet
My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd

The treasure at my feet.

Charm'd with the sight, the world, I cried,

Shall hear of this thy deed : My dog shall mortify the pride

Of man's superior breed:

But chief myself I will enjoin,

Awake at duty's call,
To show a love as prompt as thine,

To him who gives me all.

SONG.*

Air—"The Lass of Pattie's Mill.

WHEN all within is peace,

How nature seems to smile! Delights that never cease,

The live-long day beguile. From morn to dewy eve,

With open hand she showers Fresh blessings to deceive,

And sooth the silent hours.

It is content of heart

Gives nature power to please ; The mind that feels no smart,

Enlivens all it sees; Can make a wint’ry sky

Seem bright as smiling May, And evening's closing eye

As peep of early day. The vast majestic globe,

So beauteously array'd * Also written at the request of Lady Austen. 276

In nature's various robe,

With wondrous skill display'd, Is to a mourner's heart

A dreary wild at best; It flutters to depart,

And longs to be at rest.

EPITAPH ON A HARE.

HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,

Nor swifter grayhound follow, Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,

Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo.

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,

Who, nurs'd with tender care, And to domestic bounds confin'd,

Was still a wild Jack-hare.

Though duly from my hand he took

His pittance ev'ry night, He did it with a jealous look,

And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,

And milk, and oats, and straw; Thistles, or lettuces instead,

With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regal'd,

On pippen's russet peel,
And, when his juicy sallads fail'd,
Slic'd carrot pleas'd him well.

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