QUIN. THE OAK.-A FABLE.

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QUIN.

THE instruction of king George III., in elocution, was assigned to the celebrated Quin, under whose direction plays were sometimes performed at Leicester-House, by the young branches of the royal family. Quin, who afterwards obtained a pension for his services, was justly proud of the distinction conferred upon him; and when he heard of the graceful manner in which his majesty delivered his first speech from the throne, he cried out, "Ay, I taught the boy to speak!"

THE OAK.

THE oak, for grandeur, strength and noble size,
Excels all trees that in the forest grow;

From acorn small, that trunk, those branches rise,
To which such signal benefits we owe.
Behold what shelter in its ample shade,

From noon-tide sun, or from the drenching rain,
And of its timber staunch vast ships are made,
To sweep rich cargoes o'er the watery main.

THE CANDLE AND THE CANDLESTICK.

A FABLE.

"You mean, despicable thing," said a candle to a candlestick, "what were you made for but to wait on me?" "And pray tell me," said the candlestick, "of what use you would be without me, though now you shine so proudly, while I hold you up?"

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REVELATION. THE SNAIL.

THE CHRISTIAN REVELATION. OUR Lord, at the very outset of his public instructions, marks, at once, in the strongest and most decided terms, the peculiar temper, spirit and character of his religion; and describes the Christian temper as humble, meek, lowly, devout, merciful, pure, peaceable, and unresisting.

The world calls it mean-spirited, tame and abject, yet notwithstanding all this, with the divine author of our religion, this is the favorite character; this is the constant topic of his commendation; this is the subject that runs through all the beatitudes. To this he assigns, under all its various forms, peculiar blessings.

To those who possess it, he promises that they shall inherit the earth; that they shall obtain mercy; that theirs shall be the kingdom of heaven; that they shall see God, and be called the children of God.

THE SNAIL.

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there, house and all

Together.

Within that house secure he hides,
When danger imminent betides
Of storm, or other harm besides

Of weather.

Give but his horns the slightest touch,
His self-collecting power is such,
He shrinks into his house with much

Displeasure.

THE EMPTY BIRD'S NEST.

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone,
Except himself, has chattels none,
Well satisfied to be his own

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Whole treasure.

Thus, hermit-like his life he leads,
Nor partner of his banquet needs,
And if he meets one, only feeds

The faster.

Who seeks him must be worse than blind,
He and his house are so combined,

If finding it, he fails to find

Its master.

PRIDE THE BANE OF HAPPINESS.

THE odiousness of pride, and the evils attending it, have been the common topics both of ancient and mo dern moralists; but no observation seems more pointed than that which says, "of all vices, pride seldomest obtains its end; for by showing our own pride, we pique the pride of other men, and thus, by aiming at honor and reputation, we reap derision and contempt." The envy which is sure to follow in the train of pride, has been happily illustrated by the fable of the Peacock, who no sooner begins to spread his gorgeous plumage, than the other birds begin to cry out against his ugly legs and screaming voice.

THE EMPTY BIRD'S NEST.

AND thou, my sad little lonely nest,
Hast often been sought as the peaceful rest

Of a weary wing and a guiltless breast!

And where is thy builder now?

And what has become of the helpless brood,
For which the mother, with daily food,
Came flitting so light from the spicy wood,
To her home on the waving bough?

The fowler, perhaps, has hurled the dart,
Which the parent bird has received in her heart,
And her tender orphans are scattered apart,

So wide, they never again

In the warm, soft cell of love can meet,

And thou hast been filled with the snow and the sleet,
By the hail and the winds have thy sides been beat,
And drenched by the pitiless rain.

Though great was the toil which thy building cost,
With thy fibres so neatly coiled and crossed,
And thy lining of down, thou art lorn and lost,
A ruin beyond repair!

So I'll take thee down, as I would not see
Such a sorrowful sight on the gay green tree;
And when I have torn thee, thy parts shall be,
Like thy tenants, dispersed in air.

Thou hast made me think of each heart-woven tie;
Of the child's first home, and of her, whose eye
Watched fondly o'er those, who were reared to die,
Where the grave of a distant shore

Received to its bosom the stranger's clay;
For when, as thy birds, they had passed away,
'T was not to return, and the mother and they
In time were to meet no more!

THE Soul is that which thinks, learns, reasons, reflects, remembers within us; that which is conscious

of its own existence, and of the existence of innumera. ble beings and substances around us. It is greater worth and dignity than the bodily frame in which it resides; a spiritual being which is to remain when the body decays; possessing a peculiar life, a life which may indeed be improved or made wase, out which can never cease to be.

To live is not enough, though forever; but to kve in everlasting bliss is a point of the highest inquiry, and surely deserves our utmost attention and concern.

The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth;
Unhurt, amidst the war of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlde.

THE GLOW-WORM.

BENEATH the hedge, or near the stream,

A worm is known to stray,
That shows by night a lucid beam,
Which disappears by day.

Disputes have been and still prevail,

From whence his rays proceeu ;

Some give that honor to his tail,
And others to his head.

But this is sure,-the hand of might,
That kindles up the skies,
Gives him a modicum of light
Proportioned to his size.

Perhaps indulgent nature mearu,
By such a lamp bestowed,