YOR CHILDREN. 169

Nor seeks a refuge from the shower
That pelts his generous breast.

And surely ‘tis not less than joy
That makes it throb so fast,

When he sees, extended on the snow
The wanderer found at last.

*Tis surely he—he saw him move,
And at the joyful sight

He tossed his head with a prouder air,
His fierce eye grew more bright;

Eager emotion swelled his breast
To tell his generous tale—

And he raised his voice to its loudest tone
To bid the wanderer hail.

The pilgrim heard—he raised his head,
And beheld the shaggy form—

With sudden fear, he seized the gun
That rested on his arm ;

“ Ha! art thou come to rend alive
What dead thou mightst devour ?
And dost thy savage fury grudge
My one remaining hour ?”

Fear gave him back his wasted strength,
He took his aim too well—

The bullet bore the message home—
The injured mastiff fell.

His eye was dimmed, his voice was still,
And he tossed his head no more—
Buthis heart, though it ceased to throb with joy,
Was generous as before !
Q