And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel,

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school: and then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow: then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth: and then the justice

In fair round belly, with good capon lined,

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern in

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

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

Upbear me in your arms, unceasing

river,

That from the soul's clear fountain swiftly pours,

Motionless not, until the end is won,

Which now I feel hath scarcely felt the sun.

To feel, to know, to soar unlimited, 'Mid throngs of light-winged angels sweeping far,

And pore upon the realms unvisited, That tesselate the unseen unthought

star,

To be the thing that now I feebly dream

Flashing within my faintest, deepest gleam.

Ah, caverns of my soul! how thick your shade,

Where flows that life by which I faintly see,

Wave your bright torches, for I need your aid, Golden-eyed demons of my ancestry!

Your son though blinded hath a light within,

A heavenly fire which ye from suns did win.

O Time! O Death! I clasp you in my arms,

For I can soothe an infinite cold sorrow,

And gaze contented on your icy charms,

And that wild snow-pile which we call to-morrow;

Sweep on, O soft, and azure-lidded sky,

Earth's waters to your gentle gaze reply.

I am not earth-born, though I here delay;

Hope's child, I summon infiniter powers;

And laugh to see the mild and sunny day

Smile on the shrunk and thin au