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Geoffrey Chaucer (whose great work, the “ Canterbury Tales,” was not begun until he was past middle life), poet, soldier, courtier, and diplomatist, if not statesman, died at the

age
of

seventy-two, in the year 1400, the first and greatest of the poets

interred in Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey. These were his last verses, composed when, as the affecting title states, he lay on his deathbed, “in his great anguish”:

Fly from the press, * and dwell with soothfast

nesst Suffice unto thy good, though it be small, For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness; I Praise hath envy, and weal is blent o’er all.Ş Savour || no more than thee behovè shall;

Rede I well thyself that other folk canst rede, And truth shall thee deliver, it is no drede.**

Painè thee not each crooked to redress,
In trust of her that turneth as a ball, it
Great rest standeih in little business;
Beware also to spurn against a nall ;11
Strive not as doth a crockè with a wall;$$

Doome thyself that doomest others' dede,||||
And truth shall thee deliver, it is no drede.

That thee is sent receive in buxomness. II
The wrestling of this world asketh a fall;
Here is no home, here is but wilderness :
* Crowd.

+ Truth, I Danger.

Good presides over all. || Taste.

Counsel. ** There is no fear.

++ Do not be too eager to redress public wrongs, trusting to popular favour. ** Nail.

SS i. e. against certain destruction. III Judge yourself. 11 With cheerful submission.

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Forthè, pilgrim ! forth, beast, out of thy stall !
Look up on high, and thankè God of all!

Waivè thy lusts, and let thy ghost * thee lead,
And truth shall thee deliver, it is no drede.

And listen to these noble lines by Horne, the author of " Orion":His soul works on while he sleeps ’neath the grass. So let the firm philosopher renew His wasted lamp—the lamp wastes not in vain, Though he no mirrors for its rays may see, Nor trace them through the darkness. Let the hand Which feels primeval impulses, direct A forth-right plough, and make his furrows broad, With heart untiring while one field remains ; So let the herald poet shed his thoughts Like seeds that seem but lost upon the wind. Work in the night, thou sage! while Mammon's

brain Teems with low visions on his couch of down. Break thou the clods, while high-throned Vanity, 'Midst glaring lights and trumpets, holds its court; Sing thou thy song amidst the stoning crowd ; Then stand apart, obscure to man, with God. The poet

of the future knows his place, Though in the present shady be his seat, And all his laurels deepening but the shade. Thorwaldsen, the sculptor, died in his seventy

He “ who had left his home a poor friendless youth, returned, after a career of extraordinary activity, 'a fine old man, with penetrating eyes and flowing white hair,' to be welcomed with all the honours a court could bestow. He became the friend of Oehlenschläger and Andersen; and in March, 1843, after dining with them, and chat

third year.

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ting cheerfully about Italy and the museum of his works at Copenhagen, went to the theatre, where, while waiting for the curtain to rise, his friends noticed that his head sank, as if in sleep, upon his breast, and he was gone."

At seventy-five, Leigh Hunt was listening with great delight to some Italian airs that his daughter was singing, and in three or four hours after gently passed away.

At eighty, Thomas Churchyard, a poet of the age of Elizabeth, was one of those unfortunate men who have written poetry all their days, and lived a long life to complete the misfortune.” He composed “ an infinite number of

songs

and

sonnets, given where they cannot be recovered, nor purchase any favour when they are craved.” The poor neglected poet thus pathetically describes his old age and

poverty :High time it is to haste my carcase hence; Youth stole

away

and felt no kind of joy, And age

he left in travail ever since; The wanton days that made me nice and coy Were but a dream, a shadow, and a toy. I look in glass, and find my cheeks so lean That every hour I do but wish me dead; Now back bends down, and forward falls the head, And hollow eyes in wrinkled brow doth shroud As though two stars were creeping under cloud. The lips wax cold and look both pale and thin ; The teeth fall out, as nuts forsake the shell ; The bare bald head but shows where hair hath

been; The lively joints wax weary, stiff, and still ; The ready tongue now falters in his tale; The courage quails as strength decays and goes.

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my race

The thatcher hath a cottage poor, you see;
The shepherd knows where he shall sleep at night;
The daily drudge from cares can quiet be.
Thus fortune sends some rest to every wight,-
And I was born to house and land by right!
Well, ere my breath my body do forsake
My spirit I bequeath to God above;
My books, my scrawls, and songs that I did make,
I leave with friends that freely did me love.
Now friends, shake hands; I must be gone, my

boys!
Our mirth takes end, our triumph all is done;
Our tickling talk, our sports and merry toys,
Do glide away like shadows of the sun.
Another comes when I

have

run, Shall pass the time with you in better plight,

And find good cause of greater things to write. He was a busy worthy writer for over half a century. This was his curious epitaph :“Poverty and poetry his tomb doth inclose, Wherefore, good neighbours, be merry in prose.”

The following very beautiful poem was sung before Queen Elizabeth in the Tiltyard at Westminster on the thirty-third anniversary of her reign. The author is uncertain — probably Churchyard or Peele. The aged man-at-arms” was Sir Henry Lee, verging on fourscore.

THE AGED MAN-AT-ARMS. His golden locks time hath to silver turn'd;

O time too swift! O swiftness never ceasing ! His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurn'd,

But spurn’d in vain; youth waneth by encreasing.

Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers, but fading seen;
Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.
His helmet now shall make a hive for bees,

And lovers' songs be turn’d to holy psalms;
A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,

And feed on prayers, which are old age's alms : But though from court to cottage he depart, His saint is sure of his unspotted heart. And when he saddest sits in homely cell,

He'll teach his swains this carol for a song• Bless'd be the hearts that wish my sovereign well!

Cursed be the souls that think her any wrong! Goddess, allow this agèd man his right, To be your

beadsman now that was your knight. King George the Third's birthday (the 4th of June) was kept with affectionate and constantly growing interest throughout his lengthened reign. A royal birthday in the present time, notwithstanding the respect and love cherished for the sovereign, is a dull affair to what it was in the reign of the grandfather of Victoria. The “best of characters ”—the “good old king”—was almost religiously venerated by a large number of his subjects, and the political circumstances of the time tended to heighten the fervour of loyalty all over the kingdom, or rather over all the empire. The 4th of June was a real hearty holiday, on which to drink bumpers to the king's health (often to the ruin of that of the drinkers); to light up bonfires in all vacant spaces in towns, on beacon heights along the shores, and on hundreds of hill-sides. There were fireworks, feasts, and out-of-door sports—and it was altogether a very festive, often riotous, affair. It is remarked in the “ Book of Days” (from which we

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