him back to Bemerton; and still mentions the name of Mr. George Herbert with veneration, and still praiseth God for the occasion of knowing him.

In another walk to Salisbury, he saw a poor man with a poorer horse, that was fallen under his load: they were both in distress, and needed present help; which Mr. Herbert perceiving, put off his canonical coat, and helped the poor man to unload, and after to load his horse. The poor man blessed him for it, and he blessed the poor man; and was so like the good Samaritan that he gave him money to refresh both himself and his horse; and told him, that if he loved himself, he should be merciful to his beast. Thus he left the poor man: and at his coming to his musical friends at Salisbury, they began to wonder that Mr. George Herbert, who used to be so trim and clean, came into that company so soiled and discomposed: but he told them the occasion. And when one of the company told him he had disparaged himself by so dirty an employment, his answer was that the thought of what he had done would prove music to him at midnight; and that the omission of it would have upbraided and made discord in his conscience whensoever he should pass by that place:"For if I be bound to pray for all that be in distress, I am sure that I am bound, so far as it is in my power, to practise what I pray for. pray for. And though I do not wish for the like. occasion every day, yet let me tell you I would not willingly pass one day of my life without comforting a sad soul, or shewing mercy; and I praise God for this occasion. And now

let us tune our instruments." . . .

And he was most happy in his wife's unforced compliance with his acts of charity, whom he made his almoner, and paid constantly into her hand a tenth penny of what money he received for tithe, and gave her power to dispose that to the poor of his parish, and with it a power to dispose a tenth part

of the corn that came yearly into his barn: which trust she did most faithfully perform, and would often offer to him an account of her stewardship, and as often beg an enlargement of his bounty; for she rejoiced in the employment: and this was usually laid out by her in blankets and shoes for some such poor people as she knew to stand in most need of them. This as to her charity. And for his own, he set no limits to it; nor did ever turn his face from any that he saw in want, but would relieve them; especially his poor neighbors; to the meanest of whose houses he would go, and inform himself of their wants, and relieve them cheerfully, if they were in distress; and would always praise God as much for being willing, as for being able to do it. . . .

This may be some account of the excellencies of the active part of his life; and thus he continued, till a consumption so weakened him as to confine him to his house, or to the chapel, which does almost join to it; in which he continued to read prayers constantly twice every day, though he were very weak: in one of which times of his reading, his wife observed him to read in pain, and told him so, and that it wasted his spirits and weakened him; and he confessed it did. . . . And Mr. Bostock did the next day undertake and continue this happy employment till Mr. Herbert's death.

I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE.

James Graham, Marquis of Montrose.

My dear and only love, I pray

That little world of Thee
Be governed by no other sway
Than purest Monarchy;

For if confusion have a part,

Which virtuous souls abhor, I'll call a Synod in mine heart, And never love thee more.

As Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone;

My thoughts did evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,

That dares not put it to the touch,
To gain or lose it all.

But if thou wilt prove faithful then,
And constant of thy word,
I'll make thee glorious by my pen,
And famous by my sword.

I'll serve thee in such noble ways
Was never heard before;

I'll crown and deck thee all with bays.
And love thee more and more.

THOMAS THE RHYMER.

TRUE THOMAS lay on Huntlie bank;
A ferlie he spied wi' his ee;
And there he saw a ladye bright,

Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.

Her skirt was o' the grass-green silk,
Her mantle o' the velvet fyne;
At ilka tett of her horse's mane
Hung fifty siller bells and nine.

True Thomas he pulled aff his cap,
And louted low down to his knee;
"All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven!
For thy peer on earth I never did see."

"Now, ye maun go wi' me," she said; "True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me; And ye maun serve me seven years, Through weal or woe as may chance to be."

She mounted on her milk-white steed;
She's ta'en true Thomas up behind;
And aye, when'er her bridle rung,

The steed flew swifter than the wind.

And they rade on, and farther on

The steed gaed swifter than the wind; Until they reached a desert wide,

And living land was left behind.

"Light down, light down, now, true Thomas,
And lean your head upon my knee!
Abide and rest a little space,

And I will show you ferlies three.

"Oh see ye not yon narrow road,

So thick beset with thorns and briers? That is the path of righteousness, Though after it but few enquires.

"And see ye not that braid, braid road,
That lies across that lily leven?
That is the path of wickedness,

Though some call it the road to heaven.

"And see not ye that bonny road,

That winds about the fernie brae?

That is the road to fair Elfland,

Where thou and I this night maun gae.

"But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue,
Whatever ye may hear or see;

For, if you speak word in Elfyn land,
Ye'll ne'er get back to your ain countrie."

Oh they rade on, and farther on,

And they waded through rivers aboon the knee;

And they saw neither sun nor moon,

But they heard the roaring of the sea.