And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

Why, rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,

And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber;
Than in the perfumed chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,

And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody?

O thou dull god! why liest thou with the vile,
In loathsome beds; and leav'st the kingly couch,
A watch-case, or a common 'larum bell?

Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge;
And in the visitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deafening clamours in the slippery clouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?
Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy, in an hour so rude;
And, in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then, happy low-lie-down!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

W. SHAKSPEARE, 1564-1616.

-Henry the Fourth.

TALK WITH TIME AT THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.

TIME, old Time, with the forelock gray, While the year in its dotage doth pass away, Come, sit by my hearth ere the embers fail, And hang the scythe on yon empty nail,

And tell me a tale 'neath this wintry sky

Of the deeds thou hast done as its months swept by.

"I have cradled the babe in the churchyard wide; From the husband's arms I have taken the bride; I have cloven a path through the Ocean's floor, Where many have sunk to return no more;

I have humbled the strong with their dauntless breast, And laid the old with his staff to rest.

"I have loosen'd the stone on the ruin's height,
Where the curtaining ivy grew rank and bright;
I have startled the maid in her couch of down,
With a sprinkle of white 'mid her tresses brown;
I have rent from his idols the proud man's hold,
And scatter'd the hoard of the miser's gold."

"Is this all? Are thy chronicles traced alone On the riven heart and the burial-stone?" "No; Love's young chain I have twined with flowers; Have awaken'd a song in the rose-crown'd bowers;

Proud trophies have rear'd to the sons of fame,
And paved the road for the cars of flame.

"Look to yon child, it hath learn'd of me The word that it lisps at the mother's knee; Look to the sage, who from me hath caught Intenser fire for his heaven-ward thought; Look to the saint, who hath nearer trod Toward the angel hosts near the Throne of God.

"I have planted seeds in the soul, that bear The fruits of heaven in a world of care;

I have breathed on the tear till its orb grew bright As the diamond drop in the realms of light: Question thy heart, hath it e'er confess'd

A germ so pure, or a tear so blest?"

But the clock struck twelve from the steeple gray, And he seized his hour-glass, and strode away; Yet his hand at parting I fear'd to clasp, For I saw the scythe in its earnest grasp, And read in the glance of his upward eye His secret league with Eternity.

-American.

MRS L. H. SIGOURNEY, 1791—

NEVER DESPAIR.

THE wisest of us all, when woe
Darkens our narrow path below,
Are childish to the last degree,
And think what is must always be.
It rains, and there is gloom around,
Slippery and sullen is the ground,
And slow the step; within our sight
Nothing is cheerful, nothing bright.
Meanwhile the sun on high, although
We will not think it can be so,
Is shining at this very hour
In all his glory, all his power;

And when the cloud is past, again

Will dry up every drop of rain.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, 1775

COMMON TO ALL.

THE sunshine is a glorious thing,
That comes alike to all,
Lighting the peasant's lowly cot,
The noble's painted hall.

The moonlight is a gentle thing,

It through the window gleams Upon the snowy pillow where The happy infant dreams;

It shines upon the fisher's boat,
Out on the lonely sea ;

Or where the little lambkins lie,
Beneath the old oak tree.

The dew-drops on the summer morn
Sparkle upon the grass;

The village children brush them off,
That through the meadows pass.

There are no gems in monarchs' crowns
More beautiful than they;
And yet we scarcely notice them,

But tread them off in play.

Poor Robin on the pear-tree sings,

Beside the cottage door;

The heath-flower fills the air with sweets,

Upon the pathless moor.

There are as many lovely things,
As many pleasant tones,

For those who sit by cottage-hearths

As those who sit on thrones.

MRS HAWKSHAWE.