THE FOOLISH COLT.

This discontented colt, full fed,
Aweary of its pasture rich,
Half dislocates its brainless head
For nettles in the dusty ditch.
Skills not the amplest range of joys,
What we have not is our desire;
This proved amid his golden toys
The little prince who screamed for mire.

TROUTS.

With poising fins against the stream,
Their heads the shadowy troutlings set,
Though vain their patient instincts seem,
For chilly April's mirrored gleam
No fly disturbs as yet.
And so against ill-fashion's tide,
With faithful wills untaught to swerve,
Though cold philosophy deride,
The saints hold on and calmly bide
His season whom they serve.