Hence, faithless wretch! thou hast forgot the hand That sav'd thee from oppression--from the grasp Of want. I fed you once--then you was poor: Even as I am now. Yet from the store Of your abundance, you refuse to grant The veriest trifle. May the bounty Of that great God who gave you what you have Ne'er from you flow. You have forgot me, sir, But I remember ere I left this land, By way of traffic for the western world, I had a favourite, faithful dog, Who for the kindnesses I pour'd upon him Would fawn upon me: not in flattery, But in a sort that spoke his generous nature. Lasting as memory, Faster than friendship--deeper than the wave Is the affection of a mindless brute. In a few hours (for I can almost see The cot wherein these travell'd bones were cradled,) I shall have ended an untoward enterprize, And if that honest creature I have told you of Still breathes this vital air, and will not know me, May hospitality keep closed her gates Against me, till I find a home within The grave. CYMBELINE. * * * * * M. BOILEAU TO HIS GARDENER. IMITATED (_For the Mirror_.) Industrious man, thou art a prize to me, The best of masters--surely born for thee; Thou keeper art of this my rural seat,[4] Kept at my charge to keep my garden neat; To train the woodbine and to crop the yew-- In th' art of gard'ning equall'd p'rhaps by few. O! could I cultivate my barren soul, As thou this garden canst so well control; Pluck up each brier and thorn, by frequent toil, And clear the mind as thou canst cleanse the soil[5]