'Caricatures I scribbled have, and rhymes, And dinner-cards, and picture pantomimes, And merry little children's books at times.

'I've writ the foolish fancy of his brain; The aimless jest that, striking, hath caused pain ; The idle word that he'd wish back again.

I've helped him to pen many a line for bread; To joke, with sorrow aching in his head; And make your laughter when his own heart bled.

'I've spoke with men of all degree and sort— Peers of the land, and ladies of the Court; Oh, but I've chronicled a deal of sport!

'Feasts that were ate a thousand days ago, Biddings to wine that long hath ceased to flow, Gay meetings with good fellows long laid low;

'Summons to bridal, banquet, burial, ball, Tradesman's polite reminders of his small Account due Christmas last-I've answered all.

'Poor Diddler's tenth petition for a halfGuinea; Miss Bunyan's for an autograph; So I refuse, accept, lament, or laugh,

'Condole, congratulate, invite, praise, scoff, Day after day still dipping in my trough, And scribbling pages after pages off.

'Day after day the labour's to be done,
And sure as comes the postman and the sun,
The indefatigable ink must run.

'Go back, my pretty little gilded tome, To a fair mistress and a pleasant home,

Where soft hearts greet us whensoe'er we come!

'Dear, friendly eyes, with constant kindness lit,
However rude my verse, or poor my wit,
Or sad or gay my mood, you welcome it.

'Kind lady! till my last of lines is penned,
My master's love, grief, laughter, at an end,
Whene'er I write your name, may I write friend!

'Not all are so that were so in past years; Voices, familiar once, no more he hears; Names, often writ, are blotted out in tears.

'So be it :-joys will end and tears will dryAlbum! my master bids me wish good-by, He'll send you to your mistress presently.

'And thus with thankful heart he closes you; Blessing the happy hour when a friend he knew So gentle, and so generous, and so true.

'Nor pass the words as idle phrases by ;
Stranger! I never writ a flattery,
Nor signed the page that registered a lie.'

W. M. Thackeray.

YOUTH AND AGE.

WHEN all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green;
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen;
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,

And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,

And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down;
Creep home, and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among :
God grant you find one face there,
You loved when all was young.

C. Kingsley.

STANZAS WRITTEN IN SICKNESS.

I.

FAREWELL Life! my senses swim,
And the world is growing dim:
Thronging shadows cloud the light,
Like the advent of the night-

Colder, colder, colder still,
Upward steals a vapour chill;
Strong the earthy odour grows-
I smell the mould above the rose!

II.

Welcome Life! the Spirit strives!
Strength returns and hope revives;
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn,—
O'er the earth there comes a bloom;
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
Warm perfume for vapour cold-
I smell the rose above the mould!

T. Hood.

DAYBREAK.

A WIND came up out of the sea,
And said, 'O mists, make room for me.'

It hailed the ships, and cried, 'Sail on,
Ye mariners, the night is gone.'

And hurried landward far away,
Crying, 'Awake! it is the day.'

It said unto the forest, 'Shout!
Hang all your leafy banners out!'

It touched the wood-bird's folded wing,
And said, 'O bird, awake and sing.'

And o'er the farms, ' O chanticleer,
Your clarion blow, the day is near.'

It whispered to the fields of corn,
'Bow down, and hail the coming morn.'

It shouted through the belfry-tower,
'Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.'

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,
And said, Not yet! in quiet lie.'
H. W. Longfellow.

AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE.

(Last Lines of Thomas Ingoldsby.)

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye;
There came a noble Knyghte,

With his hauberke shynynge brighte,
And his gallant heart was lyghte,

Free and gaye;

As I laye a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree!
There seemed a crimson plain,

Where a gallant Knyghte lay slayne,
And a steed with broken rein

Ran free.

As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see.