POLONIUS'S ADVICE TO HIS SON, LAERTES

There; my blessing with thee!

And these few precepts in thy memory

See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportion'd thought his act.

Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.

Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel, but, being in,

Bear 't that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice;
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,

But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
For the apparel oft proclaims the man,

And they in France of the best rank and station
Are most select and generous, chief in that.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be;

For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.

- SHAKESPEARE.

A HERO

Not in the battle's strife,

With awful carnage rife,
Our hero fell;

That day on which he bore
His dying leader o'er
Green hillocks wet with gore,

Spared him to tell

The story of the brave

Who still the flag would save; —

His own death knell

Rang in a time of peace, When friends and joys increase And make life dear:

Ah, who could dream that death, Amid fair summer's breath

Lay brooding near!

Not in the cannon's blaze,

Or battle's lurid haze,
His spirit passed:

Yet his the hero's part

Yea, his the hero's heart

Unto the last.

Gentle and brave and true,

To him is honor due;

Low lies his head -
Yet on his grave the tear

Will fall as on his bier:
And manly hearts will pray,

As on that burial day,

In Christ's dear name alway,

"Peace to the dead!"

- ANONYMOUS.

NOTE. "That day on which he bore." When Col. James A. Mulligan of the Irish Brigade fell mortally wounded on the battlefield of Winchester, Virginia, July 24, 1864, it was his young lieutenant, John Lanigan, who drew him to the rear, the commander's right arm around his neck. Of the thirty men and officers about the fallen leader, all, with the exception of the lieutenant, were either killed or wounded. The fire' was close and deadly, the enemy near and rushing on. Loosing his enfolding arm from the young officer's neck, the stricken chief exclaimed, "Lay me down and save the flag!"

Enter at once the "narrow path,"
No Open, Sesame! it hath:

Long heats and burdens must you bear
Wet are the brows that laurels wear!

- POPE LEO XIII.

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL

PART FIRST

I

"My golden spurs now bring to me,
And bring to me my richest mail,
For to-morrow I go over land and sea
In search of the Holy Grail;

Shall never a bed for me be spread,
Nor shall a pillow be under my head,
Till I begin my vow to keep;

Here on the rushes will I sleep,

And perchance there may come a vision true
Ere day create the world anew.”

Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim,

Slumber fell like a cloud on him,

And into his soul the vision flew.

II

The crows flapped over by twos and threes,
In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees,
The little birds sang as if it were

The one day of summer in all the year,

And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees: The castle alone in the landscape lay

Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray:

'Twas the proudest hall in the North Countree,

And never its gates might opened be,
Save to lord or lady of high degree;
Summer besieged it on every side,

But the churlish stone her assaults defied;
She could not scale the chilly wall,

Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall
Stretched left and right,

Over the hills and out of sight;

Green and broad was every tent,

And out of each a murmur went

Till the breeze fell off at night.

III

The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang,
And through the dark arch a charger sprang,
Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight,
In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright
It seemed the dark castle had gathered all
Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall
In his siege of three hundred summers long,

And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf,

Had cast them forth: So, young and strong, And lightsome as a locust leaf,

Sir Launfal flashed forth in his maiden mail,
To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.