Is like to fade; for water fails On board the ship in which he sails. Now all the reservoirs are shut, The crew on short allowance put; So small a drop is each man’s share Few leavings you may think there are To water these poor coffee plants! But he supplies their gasping wants; Ev’n from his own dry parched lips He spares it for his coffee-slips. Water he gives his nurslings first Ere he allays his own deep thirst; Lest if he first the water sip He bear too far his eager lip. He sees them droop for want of more; Yet when they reach the destined shore, With pride the heroic gardener sees A living sap still in his trees. The islanders his praise resound! Coffee plantations rise around; And Martinico loads her ships With produce from those dear-saved slips.[B] [B] The name of this man was Desclieux, and the story is to be found in the Abbé Raynal’s History of the Settlements and Trade of the Europeans in the East and West Indies. [Illustration: WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF A CHILD’S MEMORANDUM BOOK] XXX My neat and pretty book, when I thy small lines see, They seem for any use to be unfit for me: My writing, all misshaped, uneven as my mind, Within this narrow space can hardly be confined. Yet I will strive to make my hand less awkward look; I would not willingly disgrace thee, my neat book! The finest pens I’ll use, and wondrous pains I’ll take, And I these perfect lines my monitors will make. And every day I will set down in order due How that day wasted is; and should there be a few At the year’s end that show more goodly to the sight, If haply here I find some days not wasted quite, If a small portion of them I have pass’d aright, Then shall I think the year not wholly was misspent, And that my Diary has been by some good angel sent. [Illustration] [Illustration: ENVY] XXXI This rose-tree is not made to bear The violet blue, nor lily fair, Nor the sweet mignonette; And if this tree were discontent Or wish’d to change its natural bent, It all in vain would fret. And should it fret, you would suppose It ne’er had seen its own red rose, Nor after gentle shower Had ever smell’d its rose’s scent, Or it could ne’er be discontent With its own pretty flower. Like such a blind and senseless tree As I’ve imagined this to be, All envious persons are: With care and culture all may find Some pretty flower in their own mind, Some talent that is rare. [Illustration] [Illustration: DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER & CHILD] XXXII CHILD. O lady, lay your costly robes aside, No longer may you glory in your pride. MOTHER.