Yet still, where'er presumptous man
His Maker's essence strives to scan,

And lifts his feeble hands,

Though saint and sage their powers unite, To fathom that abyss of light,

Ah! still that altar stands.

FOR EASTER SUNDAY.

Again the Lord of life and light Awakes the kindling ray; Unseals the eyelids of the morn,

And pours increasing day.

Oh what a night was that which wrapped
The heathen world in gloom!
Oh what a sun which broke this day,
Triumphaut from the tomb!

This day be grateful homage paid,
And loud hosannas sung;
Let gladness dwell in every heart,
And praise on every tongue.

Ten thousand differing lips shall join
To hail this welcome morn,
Which scatters blessings from its wings,
To nations yet unborn.

Charles Dibdin.

Dibdin (1745-1814) was a native of Southampton, England. He was bred for the Church, but took to music and song-writing. He appeared on the stage, but did not succeed as an actor. In his dramatic pieces and musical compositions, however, he hit the taste of his times. His sca-songs are more than a thousand in number, and some of them are quite spirited. His sons, Charles and Thomas, were also dramatists and songwriters, but inferior to the father. Thomas Frognall Dibdin, the eminent English bibliographer, son of Captain Thomas Dibdin, the "Tom Bowling" of Charles's songs, was a nephew. Charles was improvident in his habits, and died poor.

POOR JACK.

Go patter to lubbers and swabs, d'ye see? 'Bout danger, and fear, and the like;

A tight water-boat and good sea-room give me, And it ain't to a little I'll strike.

Though the tempest topgallant-masts smack smooth should smite,

And shiver each splinter of wood,

Clear the wreck, stow the yards, and bouse every

thing tight,

And under reefed foresail we'll scud. Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft

To be taken by trifles aback;

For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.

I heard our good chaplain palaver one day
About souls, heaven, mercy, and such;
And, my timbers! what lingo he'd coil and belay!
Why, 'twas all one to me as High-Dutch:
But he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see?
Without orders that come down below;

And a many fine things that proved clearly to me
That Providence takes us in tow:

For, says he, Do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft

Take the top-sails of sailors aback, There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.

I said to our Poll (for, d'ye see? she would cry
When last we weighed anchor for sea),
What argufies snivelling and piping your eye?
Why, what a [young] fool you must be!
Can't you see the world's wide, and there's room
for us all,

Both for seamen and lubbers ashore?
And if to Old Davy I go, my dear Poll,
Why, you never will hear of me more:
What then? all's a hazard-come, don't be so soft;
Perhaps I may, laughing, come back;
For, d'ye see there's a cherub sits smiling aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.

D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch
All as one as a piece of the ship,

And with her brave the world, without offering to flinch,

From the moment the anchor's a-trip:

As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends, Nanght's a trouble from duty that springs;

For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's,

And as for my life, 'tis the King's.

Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft
As for grief to be taken aback;

For the same little cherub that sits up aloft
Will look out a good berth for poor Jack!

Thomas Holcroft.

Holcroft (1745-1809), author of the still popular comedy of "The Road to Ruin," was born in London, of very humble parentage. For a time he worked at his father's trade of a shoemaker; then he became a provincial actor, and then a writer of novels. He seems to have found his forte in writing for the stage: between 1778 and 1806 he produced more than thirty dramatic pieces. He was a zealous reformer, and an ardent advocate of popular rights. The following song is from his novel of "Hugh Trevor."

GAFFER GRAY.

Ho! why dost thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Gray?

And why does thy nose look so blue? "Tis the weather that's cold, 'Tis I'm grown very old, And my doublet is not very new; Well-a-day!"

Then line thy worn doublet with ale, Gaffer Gray,

And warm thy old heart with a glass.

"Nay, but credit I've none,
And my money's all gone;

Then say how may that come to pass?
Well-a-day!"

Hie away to the house on the brow, Gaffer Gray,

And knock at the jolly priest's door. "The priest often preaches Against worldly riches,

But ne'er gives a mite to the poor, Well-a-day!"

The lawyer lives under the hill,
Gaffer Gray,

Warmly fenced both in back and in front.

"He will fasten his locks,

And will threaten the stocks, Should he ever more find me in want, Well-a-day!"

The squire has fat beeves and brown ale, Gaffer Gray;

And the season will welcome you there. "His fat beeves, and his beer,

And his merry new year,

Are all for the flush and the fair,

Well-a-day!"

My keg is but low, I confess,
Gaffer Gray:

What then? While it lasts, man, we'll live. "Ah! the poor man alone,

When he hears the poor moan,

Of his morsel a morsel will give,
Well-a-day!"

Hannah More.

The daughter of a school-master, Miss More (17451833) was a native of Stapleton, in Gloucestershire. The family removed to Bristol; and there, in her seventeenth year, she published a pastoral drama, "The Search after Happiness," which passed through three editions. In 1773 she made her entrance into London society, was domesticated with Garrick, and made the acquaintance of Johnson and Burke. In 1777 Garrick brought out her tragedy of "Percy" at Drury Lane, from which she got £750. She now wrote poems, sacred dramas, a pious novel, "Cœlebs in Search of a Wife," etc., till her writings filled eleven volumes octavo. Of "Cœlebs," ten editions were sold in one year. She made about £30,000 by her writings.

THE TWO WEAVERS.

As at their work two weavers sat, Beguiling time with friendly chat, They touched upon the price of meat, So high a weaver scarce could eat!

"What with my babes and sickly wife," Quoth Dick, "I'm almost tired of life: So hard we work, so poor we fare, "Tis more than mortal man can bear.

"How glorious is the rich man's state! His house so fine, his wealth so great! Heaven is unjust, you must agree: Why all to him, and none to me?

"In spite of what the Scripture teaches,
In spite of all the pulpit preaches,
This world-indeed, I've thought so long-
Is ruled, methinks, extremely wrong.

"Where'er I look, howe'er I range,

"Tis all confused, and hard, and strange; The good are troubled and oppressed, And all the wicked are the blessed."

Quoth John, "Our ignorance is the cause Why thus we blame our Maker's laws.

Parts of his ways alone we know; 'Tis all that man can see below.

"Seest thou that carpet, not half done, Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun? Behold the wild confusion there!

So rude the mass, it makes one stare!

"A stranger, ignorant of the trade,

Would say, No meaning's there conveyed;
For where's the middle? where's the border?
Thy carpet now is all disorder."

Quoth Dick, "My work is yet in bits;
But still in every part it fits:
Besides, you reason like a lout:
Why, man, that carpet's inside out."

Says John, "Thou sayst the thing I mean,
And now I hope to cure thy spleen:
This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt,
Is but a carpet inside out.

"As when we view these shreds and ends,
We know not what the whole intends:
So, when on earth things look but odd,
They're working still some scheme of God.

"No plan, no pattern, can we trace;
All wants proportion, truth, and grace:
The motley mixture we deride,
Nor see the beauteous upper side.

"But when we reach the world of light,
And view these works of God aright;
Then shall we see the whole design,
And own the Workman is Divine.

"What now seem random strokes will there All order and design appear;

Then shall we praise what here we spurned, For then the carpet will be turned."

"Thou'rt right," quoth Dick; "no more I'll grumble
That this world is so strange a jumble;
My impious doubts are put to flight,
For my own carpet sets me right."

Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease,
And few can save or serve, but all can please,—
Oh, let the ungentle spirit learn from hence,
A small unkindness is a great offence:
Large bounties to bestow we wish in vain,
But all may shun the guilt of giving pain.

William Hayley.

Hayley (1745-1820), the biographer of Cowper, wrote poems very popular in their day. His "Triumphs of Temper" (1781), though now forgotten, had a large sale. He wrote also dramatic pieces and a "Life of Milton" (1796). His over-strained sensibility and romantic tastes exposed him to ridicule, yet he was an amiable and accomplished man. His life of Cowper appeared in 1803. The few natural and graceful lines we quote will probably outlast all the other effusions of this once muchpraised versifier.

THE DEPARTING SWALLOWS.

Ye gentle birds, that perch aloof,
And smooth your pinions on my roof,
Preparing for departure hence,

Now Winter's angry threats commence!
Like you, my soul would smooth her plume
For longer flights beyond the tomb.

May God, by whom are seen and heard
Departing men and wandering bird,

In mercy mark us for his own,
And guide us to the land unknown!

Hector Macneil.

A native of Scotland, Macneil (1746-1818) was brought up to a mercantile life, but did not succeed in it. He wrote a tale in verse, depicting the evils of intemperance; also several Scottish lyrics. The latter years of his life were spent in comfort at Edinburgh.

KINDNESS IN LITTLE THINGS.

Since trifles make the sum of human things, And half our misery from our foibles springs,

MARY OF CASTLE-CARY.

"Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing, Saw ye my true love down on yon lea? Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming? Sought she the burnie where flowers the hawtree?

Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white, Dark is the blue of her soft-rolling ee;

Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than rosesWhere could my wee thing wander frae me?"

"I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing,

Nor saw I your true love down on yon lea; But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloamin', Down by the burnie where flowers the haw-tree: Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milkwhite,

Dark was the blue o' her soft-rolling e'e; Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than rosesSweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me."

"It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing,

It was nae my true love ye met by the tree: Proud is her leal heart, modest her nature;

She never lo'ed ony till ance she lo'ed me. Her name it is Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary;

Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee. Fair as your face is, were't fifty times fairer, Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses to thee."

"It was, then, your Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary; It was, then, your true love I met by the tree. Prond as her heart is, and modest her nature, Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me."Sair gloomed his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew,

Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling e'e: "Ye's rue sair this morning, your boasts and your scorning:

Defend ye, fause traitor! fu' loudly ye lee!"

"Awa' wi' beguiling!" cried the youth, smilingAff went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee; The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing, Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling e'e. "Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing, Is it my true love here that I see?"

"O Jamie, forgi'e me! your heart's constant to me: I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee."

Michael Bruce.

Bruce (1746-1767) was the son of a humble Scottish weaver, and a native of the county of Kinross. He studied at the University of Edinburgh, and was soon distinguished for his poctical productions. He kept school awhile, but was attacked by a pulmonary complaint, and died before he was twenty-two years old. His poems

bear the marks of immaturity, and the resemblances in them to other poets are close and frequent. With death full in his view he wrote his "Elegy," the best of all his productions. It extends to twenty-two stanzas, of which we quote the choicest. After his death his Bible was found upon his pillow, marked down at Jer. xxii. 10: "Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him." His poems were first given to the world by his college friend, John Logan, in 1770. In 1837 a complete edition was brought out.

FROM AN ELEGY WRITTEN IN SPRING. Now Spring returns; but not to me returns The vernal joy my better years have known: Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,

And all the joys of life with health are flown.

Starting and shivering in th' inconstant wind, Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined,

And count the silent moments as they pass,

The wingéd moments! whose unstaying speed

No art can stop, or in their course arrest; Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead, And lay me down in peace with them that rest.

Oft morning-dreams presage approaching fate; And morning-dreams, as poets tell, are true: Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death's dark gate, And bid the realms of light and life adieu.

I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe;
I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore,
The sluggish streams that slowly creep below,
Which mortals visit, and return no more.

Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains!
Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound,
Where melancholy with still silence reigns,
And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless
ground.

There let me wander at the shut of eve,

When sleep sits dewy on the laborer's eyes; The world and all its busy follies leave,

And talk with Wisdom where my Daphnis lies.

There let me sleep forgotten in the clay,

When death shall shut these weary, aching eyes! Rest in the hopes of an eternal day,

Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise!