FROM THE SAME IDYL.

Mark, where the beetling precipice appears,

The toil of the old fisher, gray with years;

Mark, as to drag the laden net he strains,

The labouring muscle and the swelling veins!

There, in the sun, the clustered vineyard bends,

And shines empurpled, as the morn ascends!

A little boy, with idly-happy mien,

To guard the grapes upon the ground is seen;

Two wily foxes creeping round appear,—

The scrip that holds his morning meal is near,—

One breaks the bending vines; with longing lip,

And look askance, one eyes the tempting scrip.

He plats and plats his rushy net all day,

And makes the vagrant grasshopper his prey;

He plats his net, intent with idle care,

Nor heeds how vineyard, grape, or scrip may fare.