Thy heavenly notes, like angels' music, cheer Departing souls, and soothe the dying ear. An aged peasant, on his latest bed, Wished for a friend some godly book to read: The pious grandson thy known handle takes, And (eyes lift up) this savoury lecture makes: 'Great A,' he gravely read: the important sound The empty walls and hollow roof rebound: The expiring ancient reared his drooping head, And thanked his stars that Hodge had learned to read. 'Great B,' the younker bawls; O heavenly breath! What ghostly comforts in the hour of death! What hopes I feel! 'Great C,' pronounced the boy; The grandsire dies with ecstasy of joy. Yet in some lands such ignorance abounds, Whole parishes scarce know thy useful sounds. Of Essex hundreds Fame gives this report, But Fame, I ween, says many things in sport. Scarce lives the man to whom thou'rt quite unknown, Though few the extent of thy vast Empire own. Whatever wonders magic spells can do On earth, in air, in sea, in shades below; What words profound and dark wise Mahomet spoke, When his old cow an angel's figure took; What strong enchantments sage Canidia knew, Or Horace sung, fierce monsters to subdue, O mighty Book, are all contained in you! All human arts, and every science meet, Within the limits of thy single sheet: From thy vast root all learning's branches grow, And all her streams from thy deep fountain flow. And, lo! while thus thy wonders I indite, Inspired I feel the power of which I write; The gentler gout his former rage forgets, Less frequent now, and less severe the fits: Loose grow the chains which bound my useless feet; Stiffness and pain from every joint retreat; Surprising strength comes every moment on, I stand, I step, I walk, and now I run. Here let me cease, my hobbling numbers stop, And at thy handle hang my crutches up. T. TICKLE. OLD STORY BOOKS Old Story Books! Old Story Books! we owe ye much, old friends, Bright-coloured threads in Memory's warp, of which Death holds the ends. Who can forget ye? who can spurn the ministers of joy That waited on the lisping girl and petticoated boy? I know that ye could win my heart when every bribe or threat Failed to allay my stamping rage, or break my sullen pet: A 'promised story' was enough, and I turned, with eager smile, To learn about the naughty 'pig that would not mount the stile'.