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Two travellers of such a cast,
As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed,
And on their way, in friendly chat,
Now talked of this, and then of that,
Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other mat-
ter,

Of the chameleon's form and nature.
"A stranger animal," cries one,
"Sure never lived beneath the sun:
A lizard's body, lean and long,
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue,
Its foot with triple claw disjoined;
And what a length of tail behind!
How slow its pace! and then its hue-
Who ever saw so fine a blue?"

"Hold there," the other quick replies; "T is green, I saw it with these eyes, As late with open mouth it lay, And warmed it in the sunny ray; Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed, And saw it eat the air for food."

"I've seen it, sir, as well as you,
And must again affirm it blue;
At leisure I the beast surveyed
Extended in the cooling shade."

"'T is green, 't is green, sir, I assure

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"'T were no great loss," the friend replies; "For if they always serve you thus, You'll find them but of little use.'

So high at last the contest rose,
From words they almost came to blows:
When luckily came by a third;
To him the question they referred,
And begged he 'd tell them, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue.
"Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your
pother;

The creature 's neither one nor t' other.
I caught the animal last night,
And viewed it o'er by candlelight;
I marked it well, 't was black as jet-
You stare-but, sirs, I've got it yet,
And can produce it."- "Pray, sir, do;
I'll lay my life the thing is blue."
“And I'll be sworn, that when you 've

seen

-

The reptile, you'll pronounce him green." "Well, then, at once to ease the doubt," Replies the man, "I'll turn him out; And when before your eyes I've set him, If you don't find him black, I'll eat him."

He said; and full before their sight Produced the beast, and lo!—'t was white.

Both stared; the man looked wondrous

wise

"My children," the chameleon cries (Then first the creature found a tongue), "You all are right, and all are wrong: When next you talk of what you view, Think others see as well as you; Nor wonder if you find that none Prefers your eyesight to his own."

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

[1728-1774.]

FROM "THE DESERTED VILLAGE."

SWEET was the sound, when oft, at evening's close

Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I passsed with careless steps and slow,

The mingling notes came softened from below;

The swain responsive as the milkmaid

sung,

The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;

The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school;

The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind,

These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,

And filled each pause the nightingale had made.

But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,

No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,

But all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widowed, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;

She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread,

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,

To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till

morn;

She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

And still where many a garden flower grows wild,

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,

The village preacher's modest mansion

rose.

A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year;

Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place;

Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,

More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train,

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;

The long-remembered beggar was his guest,

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,

Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talked the night

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And, as a bird each fond endearment tries

To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,

Allured to brighter worlds, and led the

way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,

And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed,

The reverend champion stood. At his control,

Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;

Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,

And his last, faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected

grace,

His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,

And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.

The service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even children followed, with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.

His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;

To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given,

But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.

As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves

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