Or, born to dark obscurity, From toil-strung limbs wrung daily bread? Say, died he ripe and full of years, Bowed down and bent by hoary eld, When sound was silence to his ears And the dim eyeball sight withheld, Like a ripe apple falling down Unshaken 'mid the orchard brown; When all the friends that blessed his prime Were vanished like a morning dream, Plucked one by one by spareless Time And scattered in oblivion's stream, Passing away all silently Like snowflakes melting in the sea? Or 'mid the summer of his years, When round him thronged his children When bright eyes gushed with burning tears A widowed wife scarce half resigned? Or 'mid the sunshine of his spring Slept he within the tented field With pillowing daisies for his bed? Captived in battle, did he yield, Or plunge to victory o'er the dead? Perhaps he perished for the faith- To free from mental thrall the land, Say, was he one to science blind, A groper in Earth's dungeon dark, Or one who with aspiring mind Did in the fair creation mark The Maker's hand, and kept his soul Free from this grovelling world's control? Hush, wild surmise! 'Tis vain, 'tis vain! No other record can we trace Came the swift bolt that dashed him Then what is life, when thus we see down, When she, his chosen, blossoming In beauty, deemed him all her own, By day, by night, through calm and storm, The deck his walk, the sea his home? No trace remains of life's career? Mortal, whoe'er thou art, for thee A moral lesson gloweth here. Puttest thou in aught of earth thy trust? 'Tis doomed that dust shall mix with dust. What doth it matter, then, if thus, Without a stone, without a name, To impotently herald us, We float not on the breath of fame, But like the dewdrop from the flower Pass after glittering for an hour? AT Beauty's bar as I did stand, When False Suspect accusèa me. "George," quoth the judge, "hold up thy hand: Thou art arraigned of flattery; "My lord," quoth I, "this lady here, Quoth Beauty, "No, it fitteth not A prince herself to judge the cause; Appointed to discuss our laws; Then Craft, the crier, called a quest, Of whom was Falsehood foremost fere; A pack of pickthanks were the rest, Jealous, the gaoler, bound me fast To hear the verdict of the bill; "George," quoth the judge, "now thou art cast, Thou must go hence to Heavy Hill, And there be hanged all but the head; God rest thy soul when thou art dead !" Down fell I then upon my knee, All flat before Dame Beauty's face, And cried, "Good lady, pardon me Who here appeal unto your grace; You know if I have been untrue, It was in too much praising you. "And though this judge doth make such haste To shed with shame my guiltless blood, Yet let your pity first be placed To save the man that meant you good; Quoth Beauty, "Well, because I guess What thou dost mean henceforth to be, Although thy faults deserve no less Than Justice here hath judged thee, Wilt thou be bound to stint all strife, And be true prisoner all thy life?" Yea, madam," quoth I, "that I shall : Lo, Faith and Truth my sureties." 'Why, then," quoth she, "come when I call: I ask no better warrantise.". Thus am I Beauty's bounden thrall, At her command when she doth call. GEORGE GASCOIGNE. MANY, MANY YEARS AGO. H, my golden days of child- How we thronged the frozen streamlets Many, many years ago! hood, Many, many years ago ! Ah! how well do I remem ber What a pride it was to know, little playmates When my mustered On this old familiar spot To select their infant pastimes, That my name was ne'er forgot; They so eagerly would come, Chase each other to and fro, Oh, my balmy days of boyhood, Many, many years ago, For the berry or the sloe, Traced by its own perfume sweet, To the nutting groves repaired, And in warmth of purest boy-love The rich clusters with them shared! Or when hoary-headed Winter Brought his welcome frost and snow, Then my days of dawning manhood, Many, many years ago, When the future seemed all brightness, Would my buoyant bosom crowd She as fair as I was proud- Would so gladly dance along! Ah, ye golden days! Departed, Yet full oft on Memory's wing Ye return like some bright vision, And both joy and sorrow bring. Where are now my boy-companions, Those dear friends of love and truth? Death hath sealed the lips of many Fair and beautiful in youth. Robin's lute has long been silent, And the trees are old and bare; Silent too the rippling brooklets; The old playground is not there; Time hath stolen my fair one's beauty, And he will soon strike the blow That will break those ties that bound us Many, many years ago. T LOKER. And o'er the champain flies; which when | Some bank or quickset finds; to which his th' assembly find, haunch opposed, Each follows as his horse were footed with He turns upon his foes, that soon have him the wind. inclosed. they lay, But, being then imbost, the noble stately The churlish-throated hounds then holding deer him at bay, When he hath gotten ground (the kennel And as their cruel fangs on his harsh skin cast arrear) Doth beat the brooks and ponds for sweet With his sharp-pointed head he dealeth refreshing soil; deadly wounds. That serving not, then proves if he his scent The hunter coming in to help his wearied can foil, hounds, And makes amongst the herds and flocks of He desperately assails, until, opprest by shag-wooled sheep, force, Them frighting from the guard of those who He who the mourner is to his own dying had their keep, corse But whenas all his shifts his safety still Upon the ruthless earth his precious tears denies, Put quite out of his walk, the ways and fal lows tries; Whom when the ploughman meets, his team he letteth stand T'assail him with his goad; so, with his hook in hand, The shepherd him pursues, and to his dog doth hallo, by me, So beautiful, so godlike? Wilt thou fly me? When with tempestuous speed the hounds Why o'er thy face and bosom fall thy tresses and huntsmen follow, streaming? gleaming? Until the noble deer, through toil bereaved And why the airy pinions on thy white feet of strength, His long and sinewy legs then failing him at My name is Opportunity. Pause or rest I length, way never: The villages attempts, enraged, not giving Mortals rarely know me till I'm gone for ever. The cruel ravenous hounds and bloody hunt ers near, This noblest beast of chase, that vainly doth but fear, make me So quick in flight that none shall overtake me. * "Thoughts come again, convictions perpetuate themselves, opportunities pass by irrecoverably."-GOETHE. |