And o'er the champain flies; which when Some bank or quickset finds; to which his haunch opposed,

th' assembly find,

Each follows as his horse were footed with He turns upon his foes, that soon have him the wind.

inclosed.

But, being then imbost, the noble stately The churlish-throated hounds then holding him at bay,

they lay,

deer 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,

HO art thou, glorious form, flashing 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.
To seize me passing on to few is granted;
To anything he meets now at his sad Therefore one foot upon a wheel is planted,
Therefore the light wings bound on them, to

decay.

Down fall my tresses, face and bosom veil- | And your heart can recall—and mine often

But thou, poor mortal, precious moments For she fancied the world was a temple of

And it may be that fancy had woven a And thinking but destroys the nerves,

spell,

But I think, though her tones were as clear,

When we could do so well without it;

If folks would let the world go round.
And pay their tithes and eat their dinners,

They were somewhat more soft, and their Such doleful looks would not be found

murmurings fell

Like a dirge on the listening ear.

And while sorrow threw round her a holier

grace,

Though she always was gentle and kind, Yet I think that the softness which stole o'er her face

Had a softening power o'er the mind. But it might be her looks and her tones were more dear

And we valued them more in decay,

As we treasure that last fading flower of the year,

For we felt she was passing away.

She never complained, but she loved to the last,

And the tear in her beautiful eye

To frighten us poor laughing sinners.
Never sigh when you can sing,

But laugh, like me, at everything.

One plagues himself about the sun,

And puzzles on, through every weather,
What time he'll rise, how long he'll run,

And when he'll leave us altogether;
Now, matters it a pebble-stone

Whether he shine at six or seven?
If they don't leave the sun alone,

At last they'll plague him out of heaven.
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything.

Another spins from out his brains

Fine cobwebs to amuse his neighbors, And gets, for all his toils and pains, Reviewed and laughed at for his labors;

Often told that her thoughts were gone back Fame is his star, and fame is sweet,

to the past

And the youth who had left her to die. But mercy came down, and the maid is at

rest

Where the palm tree sighs o'er her at

even,

And the dew that weeps over the turf on her

breast

Is the tear of a far foreign heaven.

THOMAS KIBBLE HERVEY.

And praise is pleasanter than honey:
I write at just so much a sheet,

And Messrs. Longman pay the
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything.

My brother gave

money.

his heart away
To Mercandotti when he met her;
She married Mr. Ball one day:
He's gone to Sweden to forget her.

I'd tell thee where my youth hath been,

Please God, I'll keep on "never minding." Of perils past, of glories seen;