342 
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
Now climbing up some old tall tree— 
For climbing sake. ‘Tis sweet to tbee 
To sit where birds can sit alone, 
Or share with thee thy venturous throne. 
Child of the town and bustling street, 
What woes and snares await thy feet ! 
Thy paths are paved for five long miles, 
Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles; 
Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke, 
Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak; 
And thou art cabin’d and confined, 
At once from sun, and dew, and wind; 
Or set thy tottering feet but on 
Thy lengthen’d walks of slippery stone : 
The coachman there careering reels 
With goaded steeds and maddening wheels ; 
And Commerce pours each prosing son 
In pelf’s pursuit and hollos 1 Run 
While flushed with wine, and stung at play, 
Men rush from darkness into day. 
The stream’s too strong for thy small bark; 
There nought can sail, save what is stark. 
Fly from the town, sweet child! for health. 
Is happiness, and strength, and wealth 
There is a lesson in each flower, 
A story in each stream and bower; 
