This silent tongue shall plead for thee
When Time unveils Eternity!

Say, did these fingers delve the mine,

Or with the envied rubies shine?
To hew the rock, or wear a gem,
Can little now avail to them;

But if the page of Truth they sought,
Or comfort to the mourner brought,
These hands a richer meed shall claim
Than all that wait on Wealth and Fame.

Avails it whether bare or shod

These feet the paths of duty trod?
If from the bowers of Ease they fled,
To seek Affliction's humble shed;
If Grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned,
And home to Virtue's cot returned,-
These feet with angel wings shall vie,
And tread the palace of the sky!

ANONYMOUS.

THE TRUE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE.
Full oft I muse and hes in thocht.

THE passage of the speeding year,
And Fortune with her changing cheer,
Are ills on ilka hand confest;

We will not mourn for that, my dear,
But to be blythe we 'll count it best.

Fast as this warld fleets awa'
As fast her wheel does Fortune ca',
At no time tired or takin' rest:
What then? the limmer 's owre us a',

And to be blythe, I think it best.

Would pampered man consider weel,
Ere Fortune on him turn her wheel,
That earthly honour canna lest,
His fa' less painfu' he would feel:
But to be blythe I think it best.
Wha would wi' this dour warld strive
Will a' his days in dolour drive,

An', tho' he stood o' lands possest,
He couldna weel be said to live,
He 's only tholin' at the best.

Wi' a' the treasure i' the earth
What profit is there, wantin' mirth?
Wi' a' the craps o' east an' west,
Without contentment there is dearth:
So to be blythe is surely best.
Let nane for tinsel droop an' dee,
The thing is but a vanitee;

And to the life that aye shall lest
Here's out the twinkling of an ee:
So to be blythe I think it best.
Had I, because my lot is puir,
Tint heart an' hope, an' harboured fear,
An' been wi' carried cares opprest,
I had been dead langsyne, I 'm sure;
But to be blythe I think it best.
However Fortune change an' veer,
Let's blythely live as lang's we 're here ;
An' yet be ready and addrest
To pass content, without a tear,
Believin' a' thing for the best.

WILLIAM DUNBAR.
Modernized by HUGH HALIBURTON.

III.

MEMORY.

BLEST MEMORY.

FROM "THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.”

ETHEREAL Power! who at the noon of night Recall'st the far fled spirit of delight; From whom that musing, melancholy mood Which charms the wise, and elevates the good; Blest Memory, hail! O grant the grateful muse, Her pencil dipped in nature's living hues, To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll, And trace its airy precincts in the soul.

Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain. Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise! Each stamps its image as the other flies! Each, as the various avenues of sense Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense, Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art, Control the latent fibres of the heart. As studious Prospero's mysterious spell Drew every subject spirit to his cell, Each, at thy call, advances or retires, As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires.

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Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course, And through the frame invisibly convey

The subtle, quick vibrations as they play.

Hail, Memory, hail! in thy exhaustless mine From age to age unnumbered treasures shine! Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, And place and time are subject to thy sway! Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone; The only pleasures we can call our own. Lighter than air, hope's summer visions die, If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky; If but a beam of sober reason play, Lo, fancy's fairy frost-work melts away! But can the wiles of art, the grasp of power, Snatch the rich relics of a well spent hour? These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight. Pour round her path a stream of living light; And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, Where virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest!

SAMUEL ROGERS.

SUDDEN LIGHT.

I HAVE been here before,

But when or how I cannot tell :

I know the grass beyond the door,

The sweet keen smell,

The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

You have been mine before,

How long ago I may not know:

But just when at that swallow's soar

Your neck turned so,

Some veil did fall,-I knew it all of yore.

Has this been thus before?

And shall not thus time's eddying flight Still with our lives our love restore

In death's despite,

And day and night yield one delight once more?

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

PRE-EXISTENCE.

WHILE sauntering through the crowded street, Some half-remembered face I meet,

Albeit upon no mortal shore

That face, methinks, has smiled before.

Lost in a gay and festal throng,

I tremble at some tender song,—

Set to an air whose golden bars
I must have heard in other stars.

In sacred aisles I pause to share

The blessings of a priestly prayer,—

When the whole scene which greets mine eyes

In some strange mode I recognize

As one whose every mystic part
I feel prefigured in my heart.