Dared forsake that amorous heaven, Heedless of the world she went, And struck her to this sleep of stone. Look! Did old Pygmalion Sculpture thus, or more prevail, When he drew the living tone From the marble pale? BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. | The primrose to the grave is gone: The fresh green days of life's fair spring To gad with thee the woodlands o'er EBENEZER ELLIOTT. THY THE BRAMBLE-FLOWER. HY fruit full well the schoolboy knows, So put thou forth thy small white rose: I love it for his sake. Thy satin-threaded flowers; Amid all beauty beautiful, How delicate thy gauzy frill! How rich thy branchy stem! And thou sing'st hymns to them, And 'mid the general hush Lone whispering through the bush! Where children spell athwart the churchyard | Oft through the forest's dim mysterious shade, And he was not right fat, I undertake; For hopes we framed while drinking in the As lenè was his horse as is a rake, breeze? Ah! they were bright, those dreams of But looked hollow, and thereto soberly. days gone by. Full threadbare was his overest courtepy; Call back those years to mind when, children Ne was not worldly to have office; both, Our life ran on all shadowed o'er with joy; When day by day the radiant star of troth Shone through our heart in gleams without alloy. For him was liefer han at his bed's head Then, when thou sang'st, in Nature's bosom Yet haddè he but little gold in coffer; shrined, But all that he might of his friendès hent Each feathered songster paused to drink On bookès and on learning he it spent, thy lay, And busily 'gan for the soulès pray Whilst I thy waist with blooming garlands Of hem that gave him wherewith to schotwined: lay. How fresh they were, those flowers of Of study took he moste cure and heed; childhood's day! Not ae word spake he more than was need; And that was said in form and reverence, And short and quick, and full of high sen tence; Sounding in moral virtue was his speech, And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach. DAN CHAUCER. FREEDOM IS A NOBLE THING. H! freedom is a noble thing! AH! Freedom makes man to have liking; Freedom all solace to man gives; He lives at ease that freely lives. A noble heart may have nane ease, Ne ellys aught that him may please Gif freedom faileth: for free liking Is yearnit ower all other thing; Nor he that aye has livit free May not know weel the propertie, The anger, ne the wretched doom, That is coupled to foul thirldom; But, gif he had essayèd it, Then all perquére he should it wit, And should think freedom mair to prize pipe taste sweetly? A beauty, O my soul! A red clay flower-pot rimmed with gold so A brave man gave it me, Who won it-now what think you?—of a bashaw 66 At Belgrade's victory. There, sir, ah! there was booty worth the showing: Long life to Prince Eugene! Like after-grass you might have seen mowing The Turkish ranks down clean." "Another time I'll hear your story. Come, old man, be no fool; Take these two ducats-gold for gloryAnd let me have the bowl." "I'm a poor churl, as you may say, sir: "Just hear now. merry, Once, as we hussars, all "They called him only the brave Walter; "I nursed him, and, before his end bequeath- "Now, done! ing His money and this bowl To me, he pressed my hand, just ceased his breathing; And so he died, brave soul! "The money thou must give mine host: so thought I; Three plunderings suffered he; And in remembrance of my old friend brought I The pipe away with me. "Henceforth in all campaigns with me I bore it, In flight or in pursuit; Now, done! I march in, then, to-morrow; You're his true heir, I see; And when I die, your thanks, kind master, The Turkish pipe shall be." Translation of CHARLES T. BROOKS. Who's that? indeed! You're certain How much you made me start; Men seem to lose their wisdom Whene'er they lose their heart. Yes, there he is: I see him; The lamp his shadow throws Across the curtained window; He's stepping on his toes. He'll never think of tapping, Or making any din; A knock, though e'en the slightest, He thinks my mother blind. 'Tis plain I must go to him: It's no use now to cough; the door just softly, I'll ope If but to send him off. 'Tis well if from the doorstep He be not shortly hurled; Oh, men, there ne'er was trouble Till ye came in the world! Tapping at the window And peeping o'er the blind, Oh, man, but you're a trouble, And that we maidens find. The famous painters filled their wall, The famous critics judged it all. The combatants are parted now, Now strife is hushed, our ears doth meet, In the hot-press of the noonday. And o'er the plain where the dead age MATTHEW ARNOLD. CHARLES SWAIN. THE EPOCH ENDS. THE epoch ends, the world is still; The age has talked and worked its fill: The famous orators have done, The famous poets sung and gone, |