age, he was apprenticed to a silk-mercer in London. Disliking the drudgery of a retail shop, he obtained the cancelling of his indentures, and devoted himself to literature. In 1708 he published a poem, in blank verse, called "Wine;" and in 1711 "Rural Sports," a descriptive poem, which he dedicated to Pope, through life his admirer and friend, and became domestic-secretary to the Duchess of Monmouth. In 1714 he published his "Shepherd's Week," a pastoral, and obtained the post of secretary to Lord Clarendon on his appointment of Envoy-Extraordinary to Hanover; but Gay was totally unfitted for public employment, and held the situation for two months only. On his return, he produced several dramatic pieces, with but slight success; but in 1727 his "Beggars' Opera" came out, ran for sixty-two successive nights, and not only became the rage at the time, but has remained ever since one of the most popular pieces ever produced on the British stage. He soon amassed 30007. by his writings. This he determined to keep "entire and sacred," being at the same time received into the house of his early patrons the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry. Here he amused himself by adding to his "Fables." He died, suddenly, of fever, December 4, 1732, aged 44, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.] I HATE the man who builds his name A poet sought the sweets of May, There, phoenix-like, beneath her eye, Involved in fragrance, burn and die! Know, hapless flower, that thou shalt find More fragrant roses there, I see thy withering head reclined With envy and despair: One common fate we both must prove, You die with envy, I with love." 66 Spare your comparisons," replied An angry rose, who grew beside. 66 Of all mankind you should not flout us; What can a poet do without us? In every love-song roses bloom; 67.-THE MOURNING MOTHER OF THE DEAD BLIND. MRS. E. B. BROWNING. [See page 142.] I. DOST thou weep, mourning mother, Along smooth paths instead? The sunshine, by the heat; The river's silver flowing, His meek blind eyes again— II. But since to him when living, Thou wert both sun and moon, Look o'er his grave, surviving, To mediate 'twixt the two; Out of the dark he trod, At once to light and GOD! Before God's infinite! But thou art now the darkest, Until ye two give meeting Wait on, thou mourning mother! (By permission of Messrs. Chapman and Hall.) R 68. THE BURIAL OF MOSES. MRS. C. F. ALEXANDER. [Mrs. Cecil Frances Alexander is well known as the authoress of some of the most beautiful sacred songs in the language. She is the wife of a learned divine, resident at Strabane.] 'BY Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, For the angels of God upturned the sod, That was the grandest funeral Comes back when night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Noiselessly as the spring-time Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain's crown, Perchance the bald old eagle, Look'd on the wondrous sight; Still shuns that hallow'd spot, For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not. But when the warrior dieth, His comrades in the war, With arms reversed and muffled drum, They show the banners taken, They tell his battles won, And after him lead his masterless steed, Amid the noblest of the land And give the bard an honour'd place, In the great minster transept Where lights like glories fall, And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings Along the emblazoned wall. This was the truest warrior This the most gifted poet That ever breath'd a word; On the deathless page, truths half so sage And had he not high honour,- To lie in state while angels wait With stars for tapers tall, And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes, Over his bier to wave, And God's own hand in that lonely land, To lay him in the grave? In that strange grave without a name, Shall break again, O wondrous thought! And stand with glory wrapt around And speak of the strife that won our life, O lonely grave in Moab's land! O dark Beth-Peor's hill! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, God hath His mysteries of grace, Ways that we cannot tell; He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep |