Or, born to dark obscurity,
Dwelt he within some lowly cot,
And, from his youth to labor wed,

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
young,

When bright eyes gushed with burning tears
And anguish dwelt on every tongue,
Was he cut off, and left behind

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?
Oft 'mid destruction hath he broke
Through reeking blades and rolling smoke?

Perhaps he perished for the faith-
One of that persecuted band
Who suffered tortures, bonds and death

To free from mental thrall the land,
And, toiling for the martyr's fame,
Espoused his fate, nor found a name.

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!
The summer flowers in beauty blow,
And sighs the wind, and floods the rain,
O'er some old bones that rot below;

No other record can we trace
Of fame or fortune, rank or race.

down,

When she, his chosen, blossoming

In beauty, deemed him all her own,
And forward looked to happier years
Than ever blessed this vale of tears?

By day, by night, through calm and storm,
O'er distant oceans did he roam,
Far from his land, a lonely form,

The deck his walk, the sea his home?
Tossed he on wild Biscayan wave,
Or where smooth tides Panama lave?

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;
Tell, therefore, how wilt thou be tried,
Whose judgment thou wilt here abide."

"My lord," quoth I, "this lady here,
Whom I esteem above the rest,
Doth know my guilt if any were,
Wherefore her doom doth please me best.
Let her be judge and juror both
To try me guiltless by mine oath."

Quoth Beauty, "No, it fitteth not

A prince herself to judge the cause;
Will is our justice, well ye wot,

Appointed to discuss our laws;
If you will guiltless seem to go,
God and your country quit you so."

Then Craft, the crier, called a quest,

Of whom was Falsehood foremost fere;

A pack of pickthanks were the rest,
Which came false witness for to bear;
The jury such, the judge unjust,
Sentence was said, "I should be trussed."

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;
So shall you show yourself a queen,
And I may be your servant seen."

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.

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;
When with merry, rosy faces

They so eagerly would come,
Boasting of the longest top-string
Or a top of loudest hum,
Or, as proud and prancing horses,

Chase each other to and fro,
In my golden days of childhood,
Many, many years ago!

Oh, my balmy days of boyhood,

Many, many years ago,
When I ranged at will the wildwood

For the berry or the sloe,
Or the gentle, blue-eyed violet,

Traced by its own perfume sweet,
Or with light and cautious footstep
Sought the linnet's snug retreat,
Or with little blooming maidens

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,
Lit with Love's enchanting glow,
When what hopes and blissful day-dreams

Would my buoyant bosom crowd
As I forth led my beloved one,

She as fair as I was proud-
Led her forth with lightsome footstep
Where some happy rustic throng
To old Robin's merry music

Would so gladly dance along!
Or when round came joyous Christmas,
Oft beneath the mistletoe
Have I toyed with blushing maidens,
Many, many years ago.

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.