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universally pitied, by the whole regiment; but finish the story. 'Tis finished already, said the corporal, for I could stay no longer, so wished his honour a good night; young Le Fever rose from off the bed, and saw me to the bottom of the stairs; and as we went down together, told me they had come from Ireland, and were on their rout to join the regiment in Flanders. But alas ! said the corporal, the Lieutenant's last day's march is over. Then what is to become of his poor boy ? cried my uncle Toby.

Thou hast left this matter short, said my uncle Toby to the corporal, as he was putting him to bed, and I will tell thee in what, Trim. In the first place, when thou mad'st an offer of my services to Le Fever, as sickness and travelling are both expensive, and thou knewest he was but a poor Lieutenant, with a son to subsist, as well as himself, out of his pay, that thou didst not make an offer to him of my purse; because, had he stood in need, thou knowest, Trim, he had been as welcome to it as myself. Your honour knows, said the corporal, I had no orders: True, quoth my uncle Toby; thou didst very right, Trim, as a soldier, but certainly, very wrong as a man.

In the second place; for which, indeed, thou hast the same excuse, continued my uncle Toby, when thou offeredst him whatever was in my house, that thou shouldest have offered him my house-too. A sick brother officer should have the best quarters, Trim; and if we had him with us, we could tend and look to him ; thou art an excellent nurse thyself, Trim; and what with thy care of him, and the old woman's, and his boy's, and mine together, we might recruit him again at once, and set him upon his legs.

In a fortnight or three weeks, added my uncle Toby, smiling, he might march. He will never march, an't please your honour, in this world, said the corporal. He will march, said my uncle Toby, rising up from the side of the bed, with one shoe off. An't please your honour, said the corporal, he will never march, but to his grave. He shall march, cried my uncle Toby, marching the foot which had a shoe on, though without advancing an inch, he shall march to his regiment. He cannot stand it, said the corporal. He shail be supported, said my uncle Toby. He'll drop at last, said the corporal, and what will become of his boy? He shall not drop, said my uncle Toby, firmly. A well o'day, do what we can for him, said Trim, maintaining his point, the poor soul will die. He shall not die, by H

-n, cried my

uncle Toby.

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-The ACCUSING SPIRIT, which flew up to Heaven's chancery with the oath, blushed as he gave it in ; and the RECORDING ANGEL, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out forever.

-My uncle Toby went to his bureau, put his purse into his pocket, and having ordered the corporal to go early in the morning for a physician, he went to bed and fell asleep.

The sun looked bright the morning after, to every eye in the village but Le Fever's and his afflicted son's; the hand of death pressed heavy upon his eyelids, and hardly could the wheel at the cistern turn round its circle, when my uncle Toby, who had got up an hour before his wonted time, entered the Lieutenant's room, and without preface or apology, sat himself down upon the chair by the bed side, and independently of all modes and customs, opened the curtain, in the manner an old friend and brother officer would have done it, and asked him how he did—how he had rested in the night—what was his complaint-where was his pain— and what he could do to help him? And without giving him time to answer any one of these inquiries, went on and told him of the little plan which he had been concerting with the corporal the night before for him.

-You shall go home directly, Le Fever, said my uncle Toby, to my house—and we'll send for a doctor to see what's the matter—and we'll have an apothecary—and the corporal shall be your nurse—and I'll be your servant, Le Fever.

There was a frankness in my uncle Toby-not the effect of familiarity, but the cause of it--which let you at once into his soul, and showed you the goodness of his nature; to this there was something in his looks, and voice, and manner, superadded, which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate to come and take shelter under him ; so that before my uncle Toby had half finished the kind offers he was making to the father, had the son insensibly pressed up close to his knees, and had taken hold of the breast of his coat, and was pulling it towards him. The blood and spirit of Lc Fever, which were waxing cold and slow within him, and were retreating to their last citadel, the heart, rallied back-the film forsook his eyes for a moment, he looked up wishfully in my

uncle Toby's face-then cast a look upon his boy. Nature instantly ebb’d again--the film returned to its place—the pulse futtered, stopped-went on---throbbedstopped again-moved--stopped shall I go on?--No.

SECTION VI.

I.— The Shepherd and the Philosopher.

REMOTE from cities liv'd a swain,
Unvex'd with all the cares of gain.
His head was silver'd o'er with age,
And long experience made him sage ;
In summer's heat and winter's cold,
He fed his flock and penn'd the fold;
His hours in cheerful labour flew,
Nor envy nor ambition knew;
His wisdom and his honest fame,
Through all the country rais'd his name.

A deep philosopher, (whose rules
Of moral life were drawn from schools)
The shepherd's homely, cottage sought ;
And thus explor'd his reach of thought.
Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil
O’er books consum'd the midnight oil?
Hast thou old Greece and Rome survey.com
And the vast sense of Plato weigh'd ?
Hath Socrates thy soul refin'd ?
And hast thou fathom'd Tully's mind ?
Or, like the wise Ulysses thrown,
By various fates, on realms unknown:
Hast thou through many cities stray'd,
Their customs, laws, and manners, weiga'u

The shepherd modestly reply'd,
I ne'er the paths of learning try'd ;
Nor have I roam'd in foreign parts,
To read mankind, their laws, and arts;
For man is practis'd in disguise ;
He cheats the most discerning eyes ;
Who by that search shall wiser grow,
When we ourselves can never know :
'The little knowledge I have gain'd,
Was all from simple nature drain'd;
Hence my life's maxims took their rise,
Hence grew my settled hate to vice.

The daily labours of the bee
Awake my soul to industry.
Who can observe the careful ant,
And not provide for future want?
My dog, (the trucst of his kind)
With gratitude inflames my mind;
I mark his true, his faithful way,
And in my service copy Tray.
In constancy and nuptial love,
I learn my duty from the dove.
The hen, who from the chilly air,
With pious wing protects her care,

And every fowl that flies at large,
Instructs me in a parent's charge.

From nature, too, I take my rule
To shun contempt and ridicule.
I never with important air,
In conversation overbear:
Can grave and formal pass for wise,
When men the solemn owl despise
My tongue within my lips I rein,
For who talks much must talk in vain :
We from the worldly torrent fly:
Who listens to the chattering pie ?
Nor would I with felonious flight,
By stealth invade my neighbour's right:
Rapacious animals we hate ;
Kites, hawks, and wolves, deserve their fate,
Do not we just abhorrence find
Against the toad and serpent kind ?
But envy, calumny, and spite,
Bear stronger venom in their bite :
Thus every object of creation
Can furnish hints for contemplation.
And from the most minute and mean,
A virtuous mind can morals glean.

Thy fame is just, the sage replies:
Thy virtue proves thee truly wise.
Pride often guides the author's pen ;
Books as affected are as men:
But he who studies nature's laws,
From certain truth his maxims draws;
And those, without our schools, suffice
To make men moral, good, and wise.

II.-Ode to Leven Water.
ON Leven's banks while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,
I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod th’ Arcadian plain.
Pure stream ! in whose transparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source ;
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,
With white, round, polish'a pebbles spread ;
While, lightly pois’d, the scaly brood,
In myriads cleave thy chrystal flood;
The springing trout, in speckled pride ;
The salmon, monarch of the tide;
The ruthless pike, intent on war;
The silver eel, and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,

R

By bowers of birch and groves of pine,
And hedges flower'd with eglantine.

Still on thy banks so gaily green,
May num'rous herds and flocks be seen
And lasses, chanting o'er the pail ;
And shepherds, piping in the dale ;
And ancient faith, that knows no guile;
And industry, embrown'd with toil ;
And hearts resolv'd and hands prepar'd,
The blessings they enjoy to guard.

III.-Ode from the 19th Psalm.
THE spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue etherial sky,
And spangled heav'ns, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.
Th' unwearied sun from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display ;
And publishes to ev'ry land,
The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wond'rous tale,
And, nightly, to the listning earth,
Repeats the story of her birth;
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball ?
What though no real voice nor sound
Amid these radiant orbs be found ?
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice ;
Forever singing, as they shine,
6 The hand that made us is divine."

IV.Rural Charms. SWEET Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain ; Where health and plenty cheer'd the lab'ring swain ; Where smiling spring its earliest visits paid, And parting summer's lingʻring blooms delay'd : Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease ! Seats of my youth, when ev'ry sport could please ! How often have I loitei'd o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! How often have I paus'd on every charm! The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, The never failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church, that topp'd the neighbouring hill ; The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made.

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