The Illustrated London Reading Book. Various

on Pallas' helm we sit,

      The type and ornament of wit:

      But now, alas! we're quite neglected,

      And a pert Sparrow's more respected."

      A Sparrow, who was lodged beside,

      O'erhears them sooth each other's pride.

      And thus he nimbly vents his heat:

      "Who meets a fool must find conceit.

      I grant you were at Athens graced,

      And on Minerva's helm were placed;

      But ev'ry bird that wings the sky,

      Except an Owl, can tell you why.

      From hence they taught their schools to know

      How false we judge by outward show;

      That we should never looks esteem,

      Since fools as wise as you might seem.

      Would you contempt and scorn avoid,

      Let your vain-glory be destroy'd:

      Humble your arrogance of thought,

      Pursue the ways by Nature taught:

      So shall you find delicious fare,

      And grateful farmers praise your care;

      So shall sleek mice your chase reward,

      And no keen cat find more regard."

Gay.

      THE BEETLE

      See the beetle that crawls in your way,

      And runs to escape from your feet;

      His house is a hole in the clay,

      And the bright morning dew is his meat.

      But if you more closely behold

      This insect you think is so mean,

      You will find him all spangled with gold,

      And shining with crimson and green.

      Tho' the peacock's bright plumage we prize,

      As he spreads out his tail to the sun,

      The beetle we should not despise,

      Nor over him carelessly run.

      They both the same Maker declare—

      They both the same wisdom display,

      The same beauties in common they share—

      Both are equally happy and gay.

      And remember that while you would fear

      The beautiful peacock to kill,

      You would tread on the poor beetle here,

      And think you were doing no ill.

      But though 'tis so humble, be sure,

      As mangled and bleeding it lies,

      A pain as severe 'twill endure,

      As if 'twere a giant that dies.

      THE FOUNDING OF THE BELL

      Hark! how the furnace pants and roars,

      Hark! how the molten metal pours,

      As, bursting from its iron doors,

      It glitters in the sun.

      Now through the ready mould it flows,

      Seething and hissing as it goes,

      And filling every crevice up,

      As the red vintage fills the cup—

      Hurra! the work is done!

      Unswathe him now. Take off each stay

      That binds him to his couch of clay,

      And let him struggle into day!

      Let chain and pulley run,

      With yielding crank and steady rope,

      Until he rise from rim to cope,

      In rounded beauty, ribb'd in strength,

      Without a flaw in all his length—

      Hurra! the work is done!

      The clapper on his giant side

      Shall ring no peal for blushing bride,

      For birth, or death, or new-year tide,

      Or festival begun!

      A nation's joy alone shall be

      The signal for his revelry;

      And for a nation's woes alone

      His melancholy tongue shall moan—

      Hurra! the work is done!

      Borne on the gale, deep-toned and clear,

      His long, loud summons shall we hear,

      When statesmen to their country dear

      Their mortal race have run;

      When mighty Monarchs yield their breath,

      And patriots sleep the sleep of death,

      Then shall he raise his voice of gloom,

      And peal a requiem o'er their tomb—

      Hurra! the work is done!

      Should foemen lift their haughty hand,

      And dare invade us where we stand,

      Fast by the altars of our land

      We'll gather every one;

      And he shall ring the loud alarm,

      To call the multitudes to arm,

      From distant field and forest brown,

      And teeming alleys of the town—

      Hurra! the work is done!

      And as the solemn boom they hear,

      Old men shall grasp the idle spear,

      Laid by to rust for many a year,

      And to the struggle run:

      Young men shall leave their toils or books,

      Or turn to swords their pruning-hooks;

      And maids have sweetest smiles for those

      Who battle with their country's foes—

      Hurra! the work is done!

      And when the cannon's iron throat

      Shall bear the news to dells remote,

      And trumpet blast resound the note—

      That victory is won;

      When down the wind the banner drops,

      And bonfires blaze on mountain tops,

      His sides shall glow with fierce delight,

      And ring glad peals from morn to night—

      Hurra! the work is done!

      But of such themes forbear to tell—

      May never War awake this bell

      To sound the tocsin or the knell—

      Hush'd be the alarum gun.

      Sheath'd be the sword! and may his voice

      But call the nations to rejoice

      That War his tatter'd flag has furl'd,

      And vanish'd from a wiser world—

      Hurra! the work is done!

      Still may he ring when struggles cease—

      Still