MAN.

[Versified from an Apologue by Dr. Sheridan.]

AFFLICTION one day, as she hark'd to the roar

Of the stormy and struggling billow,

Drew a beautiful form on the sands of the shore, With the branch of a weeping-willow.

Jupiter, struck with the noble plan,

As he roam'd on the verge of the ocean,

Breathed on the figure, and calling it Man,

Endued it with life and motion.

A creature so glorious in mind and in frame,
So stamp'd with each parent's impression,
Amongst them a point of contention became,

Each claiming the right of possession.

He is mine, said Affliction; I gave him his birth,

I alone am his cause of creation ;

The materials were furnish'd by me, answered Earth ;

I gave him, said Jove, animation.

The gods, all assembled in solemn divan,
After hearing each claimant's petition,
Pronounced a definitive verdict on Man,

And thus settled his fate's disposition:

"Let Affliction possess her own child, till the woes

Of life cease to harass and goad it;

After death give his body to Earth, whence it rose,

And his spirit to Jove who bestow'd it."

SPORTING WITHOUT A LICENCE.

THERE's a charm when Spring is young,

And comes laughing on the breeze,

When each leaflet has a tongue,

That is lisping in the trees,

When morn is fair, and the sunny air

With chime of beaks is ringing,

Through fields to rove with her we love,

And listen to their singing.

The sportsman finds a żest,

Which all others can outvie,

With his lightning to arrest

Pheasants whirring through the sky;

With dog and gun, from dawn of sun

Till purple evening hovers,

O'er field and fen, and hill and glen,

The happiest of rovers.

The hunter loves to dash

Through the horn-resounding woods,

Or plunge with fearless splash

Into intercepting floods;

O'er gap and gate he leaps elate,

The vaulting stag to follow,

And at the death has scarcely breath To give the whoop and hallo!

By the river's margin dank,

With the reeds and rushes mix'd,

Like a statue on a bank,

See the patient angler fix'd!

A summer's day he whiles away

Without fatigue or sorrow,

And if the fish should baulk his wish,

He comes again to-morrow.

In air let pheasants range,

"Tis to me a glorious sight,

Which no fire of mine shall change
Into grovelling blood and night;

I am no hound, to pant and bound

Behind a stag that 's flying;

Nor can I hook a trout from brook,

On grass to watch its dying.

And yet no sportsman keen

Can a sweeter pastime ply,

Or enjoy the rural scene

With more ecstacy than I:

There's not a view, a form, a hue,

In earth, or air, or ocean,

That does not fill my heart, and thrill

My bosom with emotion.