clines,

To Lucia calling, her she thus bespake:
"Now doth thy faithful servant need thy
aid,

And I commend him to thee." At her word
Sped Lucia, of all cruelty the foe,
And, coming to the place where I abode
Seated with Rachel, her of ancient days,
She thus addressed me: "Thou true praise
of God,

Beatrice, why is not thy succor lent

To him who so much loved thee as to leave
For thy sake all the multitude admires?

Dost thou not hear how pitiful his wail,
Nor mark the death which in the torrent

flood

Swoln mightier than a sea him struggling holds ?"

Ne'er among men did any with such speed Haste to their profit, flee from their annoy, As, when these words were spoken, I came here,

force

Of thy pure eloquence, which thee, and all Who well have marked it, into honor brings.'

When she had ended, her bright-beaming

eves

Tearful she turned aside, whereat I felt

moved,

I entered on the deep and woody way.

Translation of H. F. CARY.

THE TOO-EARLY-OPENING FLOWER. FROM THE DUTCH OF JEREMIAS DE DECKER.

willed,

Thus am I come: I saved thee froin the beast

Who thy near way across the goodly mount. Prevented. What is this comes o'er thee, then?

Why, why dost thou hang back? why in thy breast

close;

Too soon thou venturest forth again,
For April has its winter rain
And tempest-clouds and nipping snows.
Too quickly thou uprearst thy head:

The northern wind may reach thee still,
And injure-nay, for ever kill-
Thy charming white and lovely red.

And thou perchance too late wilt sigh
That at the first approach of spring
Thou madst thy bud unfold its wing
And show its blush to every eye;
For March a faithless smile discloses.
If thou wouldst bloom securely here,
Let Phoebus first o'ertake the steer:
Thou'rt like the seaman who reposes
On one fair day, one favoring wind,

Weighs anchor and the future braves,
But sighs when on the ocean waves
For that calm port he leaves behind
As with an anxious eye he sees

His shattered hull and shivered sail Borne at the mercy of the gale Wherever winds and waters please, And deems, as he is sinking fast

The sands and brine and foam beneath,
That every wave contains a death,
That every plunge will be his last.
Thou'rt like the courtier who, elate
When greeted first by favor's ray,
Begins to make a grand display;
But, ah! it is a fickle state.
A court is like a garden-shade :

The courtiers and the flowers that rise.
Too suddenly 'neath changeful skies

Oft sink into the dust and fade.
In short, we all are like thy flower,

And ever, both in weal and woe,
With strange perverseness, we bestow
Our thoughts on time's swift-fleeting hour.
And 'tis the same with those who pine

And deem that grief will never flee, And those who, bred in luxury, Think the gay sun will always shine. For every joy brings sorrow too,

And even grief may herald mirth, And God has mingled life on earth With bitterness and honey-dew.

At eve within yon studious nook
I ope my brass-embossed book,
Portrayed with many a holy deed

Of martyrs crowned with heavenly meed,
Then, as my taper waxes dim,
Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn,
And at the close the gleams behold
Of parting wings bedropped with gold.

While such pure joys my bliss create,
Who but would smile at guilty state?
Who but would wish his holy lot
In calm Oblivion's humble grot?
Who but would cast his pomp away
To take my staff and amice gray,
And to the world's tumultuous stage
Prefer the blameless hermitage?

THOMAS WARTON.

Now, Baby dearie, what think you

To clothe each poor cold foot in a shoe? You need not crow, for yours will not do,

My merry little lover;

Your one lost brother, my baby fair,
His shoes will never and never wear:
They'll be this little one's gladdening share
Till winter days are over.

For swine are housed and kine are warm,
The dog by the fireside dreads no harm ;
And, ah! to see Christ's child in the storm.
A wanderer without cover!

'Tis sweet to have, but not all to keep, And 'tis good sometimes to know to weep, And I pity the heart that would slumber and sleep

Till winter days are over.

DR. GEORGE SIGERSON.

S

AWAY FROM HOME. WIFTER far than swallow's flight Homeward o'er the twilight lea,

Swifter than the morning light

Flashing o'er the pathless sea, Dearest, in the lonely night Memory flies away to thee. Stronger far than is desire,

Firm as truth itself can be, Deeper than earth's central fire, Boundless as the circling sea, Yet as mute as broken lyre,

Is my love, dear wife, for thee. Sweeter far than miser's gain,

Or than note of fame can be Unto one who long in vain

Treads the path of chivalry, Are my dreams, in which again My fond arms encircle thee.

JAMES ALDRICH.

SIR PHILIP SYDNEY.

IR PHILIP SYDNEY was the son of Sir Henry Sydney of Penshurst, Kent. After receiving the best education which could be given at that date, upon leaving college he travelled in France, Germany and Italy. He came to be esteemed one of the most accomplished men of his day, and, being a statesman, a writer, a poet and a soldier, was regarded as one of the chief ornaments of the court of Queen Elizabeth. Possibly his grace as a courtier and favorite of the queen made him more highly regarded in his day as a poet than a dispassionate study of his poetry would seem to justify. Horace Walpole took special pains to depreciate Sydney's muse, but probably the opinions of Lord Orford circulate at a much smaller value in the present day than when he lived and wrote and affected to build. Certainly his criticism would not be accepted either to uphold or to pull down a literary fame.

In 1576 the queen despatched Sydney on a mission to the emperor Rudolph the object of which was to establish a league among the Protestant princes. When the duke of Anjou visited England, Sydney was conspicuous in the tournaments given in his honor. He accompanied the prince as far as Antwerp on his return to the Continent. When the Garter was conferred on the prince palatine,

Sydney was selected to represent him by proxy at the installation, and was knighted by the queen on the occasion. In 1585 he and Sir Francis Drake projected an expedition against the Spaniards in South America, but Sydney was recalled from Plymouth, by the queen's special command, when upon the point of embarking. The crown of Poland was about to be offered to Sydney, when the queen again interposed, for fear (as Camden said) of losing "the jewel of her times.' Sydney was made governor of Flushing and promoted to the command of the cavalry under his uncle, the earl of Leicester, general of the army sent into Holland to aid the Dutch against the Spaniards. On the 22d September, 1586, Sydney fell in with a convoy of the enemy, led by the marquis of Guisto, proceeding to the relief of Zutphen, over which his troops (though inferior in numbers) gained a signal victory, the marquis of Gonzaga being left on the field dead. The triumph, however, was dearly bought at the cost of Sydney's life. Having had one horse shot under him, he mounted another, and continued in the thick of the fight until a ball pierced his left thigh and inflicted a fatal wound. As he was being carried away from the field, exhausted with the loss of blood, he begged for a draught of water. On the water being lifted to his lips his eyes fell on a dying soldier looking eagerly at it. Sydney desired the water to be given to the soldier, saying, This man's necessity is greater than mine." greater than mine." He lingered for a few

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