66 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; If Of whom was Falsehood foremost fere; 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, my When little playmates mustered On this old familiar spot To select their infant pastimes, That my name was ne'er forgot; They so eagerly would come, 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, Lit with Love's enchanting glow, When what hopes and blissful day-dreams 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, FLY AS A HART TO THE MOUNTAİN. | A foe that is fair and open You may fight and keep your place, But who can fight with a shadow That never will show its face? When you fear and you know not why, HE THOMAS J. REID. THE HUNTED DEER. E, rousing, rusheth out, and through the brakes doth drive. As though up by the roots the bushes he would rive, And through the cumbrous thicks as fearfully he makes He with his branchèd head the tender saplings shakes, That sprinkling their moist pearl do seem for him to weep, When after goes the cry, with yellings loud and deep, That all the forest rings, and every neighboring place, And there is not a hound but falleth to the chase, Rechating with his horns, which then the hunter cheers, Whilst still the lusty stag his high-palmed head upbears, His body showing state, with unbent knees upright, Expressing from all beasts, his courage in his flight. But when, the approaching foes still following, he perceives That he his speed must trust, his usual walk he leaves, 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, lets fall. MICHAEL DRAYTON. 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? never: Until the noble deer, through toil bereaved And why the airy pinions on thy white feet way decay. Down fall my tresses, face and bosom veil- | And your heart can recall—and mine often ing, That none may know me till to know be un availing; Then mockingly I fling aside the veil and please me With their vain hope, and vainer haste, to seize me. And who is this dark form that follows thee with weeping, Ever as a shadow on thy bright track keeping? Her name's Repentance. When I fleet quickly by them, She stoppeth, weeping, vainly weeping, nigh them. goes back With a sigh and a tear to the hoursWhen we gazed on her form as she followed the track Of the butterfly's wing through the flowers; When in her young joy she would smile with delight On its plumage of mingling dyes, Till she let it go free, and looked after its flight To see if it entered the skies? But she wandered away from the home of her youth One spring ere the roses were blown, But thou, poor mortal, precious moments For she fancied the world was a temple of truth, And she measured all hearts by her own; She fed on a vision and lived on a dream, And she followed it over the wave, And she sought where the moon has a milder gleam For a home, and they gave her a grave. There was one whom she loved, though she breathed it to none, For love of her soul was a part, And he said he loved her, but he left her alone With the worm of despair in her heart; And oh, with what anguish we counted, each day, The roses that died on her cheek, Yet her eye was as mild and as blue to the last, Though shadows stole over its beam, |