The grief that on my quiet preys,

tongue,

It is a question idle all! Ask of the breezes as they blow:

Say, do they heed or hear thy call? They murmur in the trees around, And mock thy voice, an empty sound.

A hundred summer suns have showered
Their fostering warmth and radiance bright,
A hundred winter storms have lowered.
With piercing floods and hues of night,
Since first this remnant of his race
Did tenant his lone dwelling-place.

Say, did he come from East, from West, From southern climes, or where the pole With frosty sceptre doth arrest

The howling billows as they roll? Within what realm of peace or strife Did he first draw the breath of life?

Was he of high or low degree?

Did grandeur smile upon his lot?

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?

The soul decays not: freed from earth

And earthly coils, it bursts away; Receiving a celestial birth

And spurning off its bonds of clay, It soars and seeks another sphere,

And blooms through heaven's eternal year.

Do good; shun evil; live not thou

As if at death thy being died; Nor Error's siren voice allow

To draw thy steps from truth aside; Look to thy journey's end, the grave, And trust in Him whose arm can save.

D. M. MOIR.

AT BEAUTY'S BAR.

T Beauty's bar as I did stand,

AT

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;