Thy flowering spring, thy summer's ardent strength,
Thy sober autumn fading into age,

And pale concluding winter comes at last,
And shuts the scene.

Ah! whither now are fled

Those dreams of greatness? those unsolid hopes
Of happiness? those longings after fame?
Those restless cares? those busy, bustling days?
Those gay-spent, festive nights? those veering thoughts,
Lost between good and ill, that shared thy life?

All are now vanished? Virtue sole survives,
Immortal, never-failing friend of man,

His guide to happiness on high. And see!
'Tis come, the glorious morn! the second birth
Of heaven and earth! awakening nature hears
The new-creating word, and starts to life,
In every hightened form, from pain and death.
Forever free.

The great eternal scheme,

Involving all, and in a perfect whole
Uniting, as the prospect wider spreads,
To Reason's eye refined, clears up apace.
Ye vainly wise! ye blind presumptuous! now,
Confounded in the dust, adore that Power
And Wisdom oft arraigned.

See now the cause

Why unassuming worth in secret lived,
And died neglected: why the good man's share
In life was gall and bitterness of soul:
Why the lone widow and her orphans pined
In starving solitude; while Luxury,

In palaces, lay straining her low thought
To form unreal wants: why heaven-born truth,
And moderation fair, wore the red marks
Of superstition's scourge: why licensed pain,
That cruel spoiler, that embosomed foe,
Embittered all our bliss.

Ye good, distressed!

Ye noble few! who here unbending stand
Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up awhile,
And what your bounded view, which only saw

A little part, deemed evil, is no more.
The storms of wintry time will quickly pass,
And one unbounded spring encircle all.

FROM THOMSON.

XC.-RUDIGER'S LAST BANQUET.

O'ER a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray,
Where, in his last strong agony, a dying warrior lay,
The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been bent
By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent.

"They come around me here, and say, my days of life are o'er, That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band no more; They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now that I, Their own liege lord and master born, that I-ha! ha!-must die. "And what is death? I've dared him oft, before the Paynim spear;

Think ye he's entered at my gate, has come to seek me here? I've met him,-faced him,-scorned him,-when the fight was raging hot;

I'll try his might, I'll brave his power! defy, and fear him not!

"Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the culverin;
Bid each retainer arm with speed; call every vassal in.
Up with my banner on the wall; the banquet board prepare;
Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armor there!"
A hundred hands were busy then. The banquet forth was spread,
And rung the heavy oaken floor with many a martial tread;
While from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted wall,
Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear, o'er the proud old
Gothic hall.

Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed retainers poured,
On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the

board;

While at its head, within his dark, carved, oaken chair of state, Armed cap-à-pie, stern Rudiger, with girded falchion, sate.

"Fill every beaker up, my men! Pour forth the cheering wine! There's life and strength in every drop; thanksgiving to the vine! Are ye all there, my vassals true? mine eyes are waxing dim: Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim!

Draw forth each trusty

"Ye're there, but yet I see you not!

sword,

And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board!
I hear it faintly; louder yet! What clogs my heavy breath?
Up, all and shout for Rudiger, 'Defiance unto death!'"'

Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, and rose a deafening cry,
That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on high:
"Ho! cravens! do ye fear him? Slaves! traitors! have ye flown?
Ho! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone?

"But I defy him! let him come!" Down rang the massy cup, While from its sheath the ready blade came flashing half-way up; And, with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on his head,

There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old Rudiger sat-dead!

XCI.-JOHN DAY.

JOHN DAY, he was the biggest man,
Of all the coachman kind;

With back too broad to be conceived
By any narrow mind.

The very horses knew his weight,
When he was in the rear,

And wished his box a Christmas-box,

To come but once a year.

The bar-maid of "The Crown" he loved,
From whom he never ranged;

For, though he changed his horses there,
His love he never changed.

He thought her fairest of all fares,
So fondly love prefers;

And often, twelve outsides, among,
No outside deemed like hers.

One day, as she was sitting down
Beside the porter pump,

He came and knelt, with all his fat,
And made an offer plump.

Said she, "my taste will never learn
To like so huge a man;

But still he stoutly urged his suit,
With vows, and sighs, and tears,
Yet could not pierce her heart, although
He drove the "Dart" for years.

In vain he wooed, in vain he sued;
The maid was cold and proud,
And sent him off to Coventry,
While on the way to Stroud.

He fretted all the way to Stroud,
And thence all back to town;
The course of love was never smooth,
So his went up and down.

At last, her coldness made him pine
To merely bones and skin;

But still he loved like one resolved
To love through thick and thin.

"O, Mary! view my wasted back,
And see my dwindled calf!
Though I have never had a wife,
I've lost my better half!"

Alas! in vain he still assailed,
Her heart withstood the dint;
Though he had carried sixteen stone,
He could not move a flint!

Worn out, at last he made a vow,
To break his being's link,
For he was so reduced in size,
At nothing he could shrink.

Now, some will talk in water's praise,

And waste a deal of breath;

But John, though he drank nothing else,
He drank himself to death,

Some say his spirit haunts the Crown;
But that is only talk;

For, after riding all his life,

His ghost objects to walk.

FROM HOOD,

XCII. THE WATCHMEN. SCENE I.

CHARACTERS.-Dogberry and Verges, ignorant justices; and two watch

men.

Dogberry. ARE you good men and true?

Verges. Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer salvation, body and soul.

Dogb. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the prince's watch.

Verg. Well, give them their charge, neighbor Dogberry.

Dogb. First, who think you the most desartless man to be constable?

1st Watch. George Seacoal; for he can write and read. Dogb. Come hither, neighbor Seacoal. Heaven hath blessed you with a good name. To be a well-favored man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature.

2nd Watch. Both which, master constable,

Dogb. You have. I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favor, sir, why, give Heaven thanks, and make no boast of it; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch, therefore bear you the lantern. This is your charge. You shall comprehend all vagrom men. You are to bid any man stand, in the prince's

name.

2nd Watch. How if he will not stand?

Dogb. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank Heaven you are rid of a knave.

Verg. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the prince's subjects.

Dogb. True, and they are to meddle with none but the prince's subjects. You shall also make no noise in the