Call ye my Whole,-ay, call
The lord of lute and lay!
And let him greet the sable pall
With a noble song to-day!
Ay, call him by his name!
Nor fitter hand may crave
To light the flame of a soldier's fame
On the turf of a soldier's grave.
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.
I'm a strange contradiction; I'm new, and I'm old,
I'm often in tatters, and oft decked with gold. Though I never could read, yet lettered I'm found;
Though blind, I enlighten; though loose, I am
bound,
I'm always in black, and I'm always in white;
I'm grave and I'm gay, I am heavy and light-
In form too I differ, I'm thick and I'm thin,
I've no flesh and no bones, yet I'm covered with
skin;
I've more points than the compass, more stops
than the flute;
I sing without voice, without speaking confute.
in Merry I'm English, I'm German, I'm French, and I'm Mood
Some love me too fondly, some slight me too
I often die soon, though I sometimes lives ages,
And no monarch alive has so many pages.
HANNAH MORE.
We are little airy creatures,
All of different voice and features;
One of us in glass is set,
One of us you'll find in jet.
T'other you may see in tin,
And the fourth a box within.
If the fifth you should pursue,
it can never fly from you.
JONATHAN SWIFT.
"Twas whispered in Heaven, 'twas muttered in
And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;
On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence con-
fess'd;
"Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven
asunder,
Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder;
"Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends him at birth and awaits him in death,
Presides o'er his happiness, honor and health,
Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.
In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir;
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs
is crowned;
Without it the soldier and seaman may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be
found,
Nor e'er in the whirlwind of passion be drowned;
"Twill soften the heart; but though deaf be the
It will make it acutely and instantly hear.
In Merry Set in shade, let it rest like a delicate flower; Mood Ah! breathe on it softly, it dies in an hour.
CATHERINE M. FANSHAWE.
Feigned Courage
Horatio, of ideal courage vain,
Was flourishing in air his father's cane,
And, as the fumes of valour swell'd his pate,
Now thought himself this hero, and now that:
"And now," he cried, "I will Achilles be;
My sword I brandish; see, the Trojans flee!
Now I'll be Hector, when his angry blade
A lane through heaps of slaughter'd Grecians
made!
And now my deeds, still braver I'll evince,
I am no less than Edward the Black Prince.
Give way, ye coward French!" As thus he spoke,
And aim'd in fancy a sufficient stroke
To fix the fate of Crecy or Poictiers
(The Muse relates the Hero's fate with tears),
He struck his milk-white hand against a nail,
Sees his own blood, and feels his courage fail.
Ah! where is now that boasted valour flown,
That in the tented field so late was shown?
Achilles weeps, great Hector hangs his head,
And the Black Prince goes whimpering to bed.
CHARLES AND MARY LAMB.
In ancient times, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.
It happened on a winter night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguised in tattered garments went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the stroller's canting strain,
They begged from door to door in vain,
Tried every tone might pity win;
But not a soul would take them in.
Our wandering saints, in woful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village passed,
To a small cottage came at last
Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman,
Call'd in the neighborhood Philemon ;
Who kindly did these saints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night;
And then the hospitable sire
Bid goody Baucis mend the fire;
While he from out the chimney took
A flitch of bacon off the hook,
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