'Tis the voice of the Sluggard: I heard him complain,

"You have waked me too soon! I must slumber again!" As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed

Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.

"A little more sleep, and a little more slumber!”

Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number;

And when he gets up he sits folding his hands,

Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.

I pass'd by his garden, and saw the wild brier,
The thorn, and the thistle grow broader and higher :
The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags ;
And his money still wastes, till he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit, still hoping to find

He had took better care for improving his mind :

He told me his dreams, talk'd of eating and drinking;
But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson for me!

That man's but a picture of what I might be;

But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,

Who have taught me by times to love working and reading!"

II.

INNOCENT PLAY.

ABROAD in the meadows, to see the young lambs
Run sporting about by the side of their dams,

With fleeces so clean and so white;

Or a nest of young doves in a large open cage, When they play all in love, without anger or rage, How much may we learn from the sight!

If we had been ducks, we might dabble in mud;
Or dogs, we might play till it ended in blood:

So foul and so fierce are their natures;

But Thomas and William, and such pretty names, Should be cleanly and harmless as doves or as lambs, Those lovely sweet innocent creatures.

Not a thing that we do, nor a word that we say,
Should injure another in jesting or play,

For he's still in earnest that 's hurt:

How rude are the boys that throw pebbles and mire; There's none but a madman will fling about fire,

And tell you ""Tis all but in sport!"

III.

THE ROSE.

How fair is the Rose! what a beautiful flower!

The glory of April and May :

But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,

And they wither and die in a day.

Yet the Rose has one powerful virtue to boast,

Above all the flowers of the field!

When its leaves are all dead and fine colours are lost, Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!

So frail is the youth and the beauty of man, Though they bloom and look gay like the Rose; But all our fond care to preserve them is vain, Time kills them as fast as he goes.

Then I'll not be proud of my youth and my beauty, Since both of them wither and fade;

But gain a good name by well doing my duty:

This will scent like a Rose when I'm dead.