In

Though this indeed promotion gains,
For this the park's new wall contains:
And here I fear we shall not meet
A shade-although, perchance, a seat."
"O then, my lassie, lead the way

To Comfort's Home, the ancient inn ;
That something holds, if we can pay—
Old David is our living kin;

A servant once, he still preserves
His name, and in his office serves!

"Alas! that mine should be the fate
Old David's sorrows to relate;
But they were brief; not long before
He died, his office was no more;
The kennel stands upon the ground,
With something of the former sound!
"O then," the grieving man replied,
"No farther, lassie, let me stray;
Here's nothing left of ancient pride,
Of what was grand, of what was gay:
But all is changed, is lost, is sold-
All, all that's left is chilling cold!
I seek for comfort here in vain,
Then lead me to my cot again!"

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.

Crabbe.

I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions,
my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;
All, all are gone—the old familiar faces!

I have been laughing, I have been carousing—
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;
All, all are gone-the old familiar faces!

I have a friend,-a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate,* I left my friend abruptly;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood,
Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to travel,

Seeking to find the old familiar faces!

* Ingrate, ungrateful person.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling,
So might we talk of the old familiar faces;

How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed;
All, all are gone—the old familiar faces!

Lamb.

A WISH.

MINE be a cot beside a hill;

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall, shall linger near.
The swallow oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy at her wheel shall sing,
In russet gown and apron blue.

A WARNING REPLY.

YES, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
The lovely cottage in the guardian nook

Rogers.

Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!

But covet, not the abode-O do not sigh
As many do, repining while they look!

Intruder's who would tear from Nature's book

This precious leaf with harsh impiety.

Think what the home would be if it were thine,

Even thine, though few thy wants! roof, window, door,
The very flowers are sacred to the poor,

The roses to the porch which they entwine:
Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day
On which it should be touch'd would melt away.

Wordsworth.

STANDARD

THE AGE OF CHILDREN HAPPIEST.

LAID in my quiet bed, in study as 'twere,

I saw within my troubled head a heap of thoughts appear;
And every thought did show so lively in mine eyes,

That now I sigh'd, and then I smiled, as cause of thoughts did

rise.

I saw the little boy, in thought, how oft that he

Did wish of God, to 'scape the rod, a tall young man to be!
The young man eke that feels his bones with pain opprest,`
How he would be a rich old man, to live and lie at rest!
The rich old man that sees his end draw on so sore,
How would he be a boy again to live so much the more!
Whereat full oft I smiled, to see how all those three,
From boy to man, from man to boy, would chop and change
degree.
Earl of Surrey.

THE HAPPY HEART.

ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?

O sweet content!
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd?
O punishment!
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labor bears a lovely face!

Then hey nonny, nonny! hey nonny, nonny!

Canst drink the waters of the crispéd spring?

O sweet content!

Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? O punishment!

Then he that patiently want's burden bears,

No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labor bears a lovely face!
Then hey nonny, nonny! hey nonny, nonny!

Bekker.

AFTON WATER.

braes,

FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among the green
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den;
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,-
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills;
There daily I wander, as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow:
There oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gath'ring sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among the green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Burns.

ON A FRIEND WHO DIED IN ITALY.

FAIR ship, that from the Italian shore
Sailest the placid ocean plains,

With my lost Arthur's loved remains,
Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er!

So draw him home to those that mourn
In vain; a favorable speed

Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead
Through prosperous floods his holy urn!

All night no ruder air perplex

Thy sliding keel, till phosphor, bright As our pure love, through early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks!

Sphere all your lights around, above;
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow ;
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now---
My friend, the brother of my love!

My Arthur! whom I shall not see
Till all my widow'd race be run;
Dear as the mother to the son,
More than my brothers are to me!

I hear the noise about thy keel;
I hear the bell struck in the night;
I see the cabin window bright;
I see the sailor at the wheel.

Thou bringest the sailor to his wife,
And travell❜d men from foreign lands;
And letters unto trembling hands;
And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life!

So bring him we have idle dreams ;-
This look of quiet flatters thus
Our home-bred fancies: oh! to us,
The fools of habit, sweeter seems

To rest beneath the clover sod,

That takes the sunshine and the rains,
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains
The chalice of the grapes of God,

Than if, with thee, the roaring wells*
Should gulf him fathom deep in brine;
And hands so often clasp'd in mine
Should toss with tangle and with shells!

Tennyson.

* Wells, waves.