Then Money came; and, chinking still

66 "What tune is this, poor man?" said he;

"I heard in music you had skill." But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came brave Glory puffing by, In silks, that whistled -"Who but he?"

He scarce allowed me half an eye. But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came quick Wit and Conversation;

And he would needs a comfort be, And, to be short, make an oration. But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Yet, when the hour of thy design To answer these fine things shall come,

Speak not at large; say I am thine; And then they have their answer home.

HERBERT.

ETON COLLEGE.

YE distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful Science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade;
And ye, that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights the expanse
below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead, survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose
flowers among
Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way:

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!
Ah, fields beloved in vain!
Where once my careless childhood
strayed,

A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales that from ye blow
A momentary bliss bestow,

As waving fresh their gladsome wing,

My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

Say, father Thames, for thou hast

seen

Full many a sprightly race Disporting on thy margent green, The paths of pleasure trace; Who foremost now delight to cleave, With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which inthrall? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball?

While some on earnest business bent,

Their murmuring labors ply 'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint

To sweeten liberty:

Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare de-
scry:

Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast:
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer, of vigor born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly the approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom,

The little victims play;

No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day:
Yet see, how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful

train!

Ah, show them where in ambush stand,

To seize their prey, the murth❜rous band!

Ah, tell them, they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear, The vultures of the mind, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that skulks behind; Or pining Love shall waste their youth,

Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth,

To humbler functions, awful power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh! let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;
And, in the light of truth, thy bond-
man let me live!

WORDSWORTH.

CONFESSION.

No screw, no piercer can Into a piece of timber worke and winde,

As God's afflictions into man,

When he a torture hath designed. They are too subtle for the subtlest hearts;

And fall, like rheumes, upon the tenderest parts.

We are the earth; and they, Like moles within us, heave, and cast about:

And till they foot and clutch their prey,

They never cool, much less give out.

No smith can make such locks, but they have keys;

Closets are halls to them; and hearts, high-ways.

Only an open breast

Doth shut them out, so that they cannot enter;

Or, if they enter, cannot rest, But quickly seek some new adventure.

Smooth open hearts no fastening have; but fiction

Doth give a hold and handle to affliction.

SUN-DIAL.

THE shadow on the dial's face,
That steals from day to day,
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Moments and months, and years
away;

This shadow, which, in every clime,
Since light and motion first began,
Hath held its course sublime;
What is it? mortal man!
It is the scythe of Time.
Not only o'er the dial's face,
This silent phantom, day by day,
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Steals moments, months, and years
away;

From hoary rock and aged tree, From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls,

From Teneriffe, towering o'er the sea,

From every blade of grass it falls;
And still where'er a shadow sweeps,
The scythe of time destroys,
And man at every footstep weeps
O'er evanescent joys.

LIFE.

MONTGOMERY.

I MADE a posie while the day ran by:

Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie

My life within this band. But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they

By noon most cunningly did steal away,

And withered in my hand.

My hand was next to them, and then my heart;

I took, without more thinking, in

good part

Time's gentle admonition;

Can yet the lease of my true love control,

Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.

The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,

And the sad augurs mock their own presage;

Incertainties now crown themselves assured,

And peace proclaims olives of endless age.

Now with the drops of this most balmy time

My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,

Since spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,

While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes.

And thou in this shalt find thy monument,

When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

SHAKSPEARE.

SHAKSPEARE.

GOOD OMENS.

NOT mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul

Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,

DESTINY.

THE Destiny, Minister General,
That executeth in the world o'er all
The purveiance that God hath seen
beforne;

So strong it is, that though the world had sworn