So, feeding, sitting at his ease, The race is by the tortoise won. Cries she, "My senses do I lack? THE LITTLE FISH AND THE FISHER. A LITTLE fish will grow, And for his growing wait, As 'tis not sure your bait Will catch him when of size. Upon a river bank, a fisher took Said he, ""Twill serve to count, at least, And so I'll put it with the rest." This little fish, thus caught, His clemency besought. "What will your honor do with me? I'm not a mouthful, as you see. Pray let me grow to be a trout, And then come here and fish me out. But now, a hundred such you'll have to fish, In some things, men of sense THE HEN WITH THE GOLDEN EGGS. How avarice loseth all, By striving all to gain, But him whose thrifty hen, All things like hens of common kind. Thus spoiled the source of all his riches, To misers he a lesson teaches. In these last changes of the moon, How often doth one see Men made as poor as he DEATH AND THE WOODCUTTER. A POOR Woodcutter, covered with green boughs, What little pleasure he has had in life. Is there so cursed a wretch in all the strife? No bread sometimes, and never any rest; With taxes, soldiers, children, and a wife, Creditors, forced toil oppressed, He is the picture of a man unblessed. He cries for Death. Death comes straightway, Death comes to end our woes. But who called him? Not I! ALPHONSE MARIE LOUIS DE LAMARTINE. ALPHONSE MARIE LOUIS DE LAMARTINE, a French poet, historian, and statesman, born near Mâcon, Oct. 21, 1790; died in Paris, March 1, 1869. He was sent to the college at Belley, where he remained until his nineteenth year. In 1811 he went to Italy, where he spent two years. When Napoleon was sent to Elba, Lamartine returned to France and entered the service of Louis XVIII. On the return of Napoleon he took refuge in Switzerland. In 1818-1819 he traveled in Savoy, Switzerland, and Italy, writing poetry, of which his first volume, "Méditations Poétiques," was published in 1820. He now entered the diplomatic service. In 1823 he published "Nouvelles Méditations." After the accession of Louis Philippe he traveled in Turkey, Egypt, and Syria. During his absence he was elected to the Chamber of Deputies. He was reëlected in 1837. The Revolution of 1848 gave him a foremost place. He was made Minister of Foreign Affairs, was elected for the Constitutional Assembly and was chosen one of the five members of the Executive Committee, but he held the reins of government for four months only. The remainder of his life was spent in literary labor. In 1860 he supervised an edition of his works in forty-one volumes. Among them are "Harmonies Poétiques et Religieuses" (1830); "Souvenirs, Impressions, Pensées et Paysages pendant un Voyage en Orient" (1835); "Jocelyn, Journal trouvé chez un Curé de Village" (1836); "La Chute d'un Ange" (1838); "Recueillements Poétiques" (1839); "Histoire des Girondins" (1847); "History of the Revolution of 1848," and "Histories of Turkey and Russia." The entire list of his writings, in prose and verse, is very long. THE CEDARS OF LEBANON. EAGLES, that wheel above our crests, Their utmost efforts we defy. Nervous and gaunt, or lift our hair, Balanced within its cradle fair Sons of the rock, no mortal hand Our hollow flanks could well inclose To pay for sin the ransom-price, The beams that form'd the Cross we gave: In memory of such great events, Of many waters; in these shades Their burning words are forged like blades, TO MY LAMP. HAIL! sole companion of my lonely toil, Dear witness once of dearer loves of mine! My happiness is fled, thy store of oil Still with clear light doth shine! Thou dost recall the bright days of my life, When in Pompeii's streets I roamed along, Evoking memories of her brilliant strife, Half tearful, half in song. The sun was finishing his mighty round; I was alone among a buried host; And there I saw thee, 'neath the ashes piled; The outline of a breast. Perhaps by thy light did the virgin go Within the tomb her perished beauty lies: Youth, maiden modesty, the dawning love She vanished like the lightning's sudden gleam, Beauty is not the idol of the best! I was a fool before her feet to lie, What matter, then, whether she smile or frown? Yes, I would tear myself from vain desires, The resting eagle is an eagle still: Though 'neath his mighty wing he hides his head, He sees his prey, he strikes it, takes his fill, Perchance you thought him dead? I pity those who thought one ivy-crowned, VOL. XIII. — 16 |