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THAT EACH THING IS HURT OF ITSELF.
Then, in this same boat, beside,
One on earth in silence wrought,
So, whene'er I turn my eye
Yet what binds us, friend to friend,
Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee;
THAT EACH THING IS HURT OF ITSELF. - Old
Why fearest thou the outward foe,
When thou thyself thy harm doth feed
Within each thing is sown the sced.
So fine was never yet the cloth,
No smith so hard his iron did beat, But the one consumed was by moth,
T other with canker all to fret.
The knotty oak, and wainscoat old,
Within doth eat the silly worm ; Even so a mind in envy rolled
Always within itself doth burn.
Thus everything that nature wrought
Within itself his hurt doth bear; No outward harm need to be sought,
Where enemies be within so near.
CHE KING OF THE CROCODILES. -- Southey.
* Now, woman, why without your veil ?
“O, I have lost my darling boy,
0, I have lost my darling child,
THE KING OF THE CROCODILES.
• He did not venture in to swim,
66 Now take me in your boat, I pray,
" The King of the Crocodiles never does wrong,
has no tail so stiff and strong, He has no tail to strike and slay, But he has ears to hear what I say.
And to the King I will complain,
The man replied, “ No, woman, no,
“ Then lend me now your little boat,
The woman she leapt into the boat,
The King of the Crocodiles there was seen,
The woman shook every limb with fear,
She fell upon her bended knee,
" A crocodile ate him for his food;
" I know that you, sire! never do wrong,
have ears to hear what I say.”
You have done well,” the King replies,
“ I have no tail to strike and slay,
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. ---- Wolfe.
Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero was buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet, nor in shroud, we bound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow !
Lightly they 'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.