At fashion's call with cruel shears
They cropped poor Tray's superfluous ears;
Twice shrieked the mutilated pup,
Then sniffed and ate the fragments up,
Nor stayed his losses to deplore,
But wagged his tail and craved for more.
Here, without Tupper, we may see
The marrow of philosophy,
The how and where with natural ease
To stow away our miseries;
Nor simply to gulp down our pain,
But turn disaster into gain;
And when her scissors shear our pate
To batten on the spoils of Fate.

THE GUIDE-POST.

Vainly, unlettered youth, you come
And scrutinise each painted word,
No aid those arms all fixed and dumb,
To your perplexity afford.
God's ministers life's guide-posts are,
And to the people roundly tell
At each cross road and thoroughfare,
The track to Heaven, the ways to Hell.
Still more, they purge the darkened mind
With helping hands and tongues of fire;
What boots the guide-post to the blind,
Or paralytic in the mire?

THE WAYSIDE MONITOR.