And drive you, Giuli, to a state so low, V. Oh, with what folly did they toil in vain, And yet, ah me! why, why, dear Nature say, VI. My Creditor seems often in a way Extremely pleasant with me, and polite; Just like a friend. — You'd fancy, at first sight, All that he wants to know is, what they say But start from whence he may, he comes as truly, And says, "Well- when am I to have the Giuli?" "Tis the cat's way. She takes her mouse, alas! And having purred, and eyed, and tapped him duly, Gives him at length the fatal coup de grace. VII. My Creditor has no such arms as he Whom Homer trumpets, or whom Virgil sings, From warlike Ilium and from Italy; Nor has he those of later memory, With which Orlando did such loads of things; But with hard hints, and horrid botherings, And such rough ways, - with these he warreth me. And suddenly he launcheth at me, lo! I draw me back, and thrust him with a No! THE CURATE AND HIS BISHOP. (From the French. Written during the Old Régime. Translated by Leigh Hunt.) ON BUSINESS called from his abode, They hear a carriage, it o'ertakes 'em ; THE BROTHERS. BY GEORGE CRABBE. [GEORGE CRABBE, English poet, was born at Aldeburgh, on the Suffolk seaboard, December 25, 1754. Having failed to establish himself as a physician in his native town, he went up to London to make a trial of literature. After a hard struggle with poverty he obtained the assistance of Burke, and was introduced to Fox, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Lord Thurlow, and the publisher Dodsley, who brought out "The Library' (1781). At Burke's suggestion, Crabbe entered the Church, became domestic chaplain to the Duke of Rutland at Belvoir Castle, and from 1813 until his death, February 3, 1832, was rector of Trowbridge in Wiltshire. His principal works are: "The Village," "The Parish Register," ," "The Borough," and "Tales of the Hall."] THAN old George Fletcher, on the British coast Kind, simple, and sincere - he seldom spoke, But sometimes sang and chorused "Hearts of oak!" In dangers steady, with his lot content, His days in labor and in love were spent. He left a son so like him, that the old With joy exclaimed, ""Tis Fletcher we behold;" And viewed his form, they grudged the father's name. George was a bold, intrepid, careless lad, With just the failings that his father had; Isaac was weak, attentive, slow, exact, With just the virtues that his father lacked. George lived at sea: upon the land a guest He sought for recreation, not for rest; While, far unlike, his brother's feeble form Shrank from the cold, and shuddered at the storm; Still with the seaman's to connect his trade, The boy was bound where blocks and ropes were made. And was to Isaac pitiful and kind; A very father, till his art was gained, Else had he seen that this weak brother knew What men to court- - what objects to pursue; Isaac was poor, and this the brother felt; For there would George with cash and comforts come: Where other friends and helpers might be found. He wished for some port place, and one might fall, He wisely thought, if he should try for all; He had a vote-and were it well applied, Might have its worth and he had views beside; - Old Burgess Steel was able to promote An humble man who served him with a vote; His ancient friend, a maiden spare and grave; George then was coasting-war was yet delayed, But took his grog, wrought hard, and was content; To think what part became a useful man: "Pressed, I must go; why, then, 'tis better far At once to enter like a British tar, Than a brave captain and the foe to shun, As if I feared the music of a gun." "Go not!" said Isaac "you shall wear disguise." "What!" said the seaman, "clothe myself with lies!" "Oh! but there's danger."-"Danger in the fleet? You cannot mean, good brother, of defeat; And other dangers I at land must share Isaac awhile demurred - but, in his heart, The better mind will sometimes feel the pain Of benefactions - favor is a chain; But they the feeling scorn, and what they wish, disdain ;While beings formed in coarser mold will hate The helping hand they ought to venerate: No wonder George should in this cause prevail, Isaac here made a poor attempt to speak, For still the virgin was his faithful friend, And one so sober could with truth commend, No more he needs assistance -but, alas! But one so friendly would, he thought, forgive The hasty deed - Heaven knew how he should live; "But you," he added, "as a man of sense, Have well considered danger and expense: ran, alas! into the fatal snare, And now for trouble must my mind prepare; |