HYMN TO DIANA.-Jonson, born in 1574. QUEENE, and huntresse, chaste, and faire, State in wonted manner keepe : Earth, let not thy impious shade Cynthia's shining orbe was made Lay thy bow of pearle apart, Space to breathe, how short soever: THE MEN OF OLD.-Milnes. I KNOW not that the men of old Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, I heed not those who pine perforce A ghost of Time to raise, As if they could check the course Of these appointed days. Still it is true, and over true, That I delight to close This book of life, self-wise and new, On all that humble happiness With rights, though not too closely scanned, Enjoyed as far as known, With will by no reverse unmanned, With pulse of even tone, They from to-day and from to-night Than yesterday and yesternight To them was life a simple art A game where each man took his part, A race where all must run; A battle whose great scheme and They little cared to know, Content, as men-at-arms, to cope Man now his virtue's diadem Puts on and proudly wears; scope Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them, Like instincts, unawares : Blending their souls' sublimest needs With tasks of every day, They went about their gravest deeds And what if Nature's fearful wound For that their love but flowed more fast, Their charities more free, Not conscious what mere drops they cast A man's best things are nearest him, It is the distant and the dim For flowers that grow our hands beneath, Our hearts must die, except they breathe Yet, Brothers, who up Reason's hill O, loiter not! those heights are chill,- And still restrain your haughty gaze, Remembering distance leaves a haze THE WORTH OF HOURS. — Milnes. BELIEVE not that your inner eye Can ever in just measure try The worth of Hours as they go by: For every man's weak self, alas! Makes him to see them, while they pass, As through a dim or tinted glass : But if in earnest care you would Those surely are not fairly spent, And more, though free from seeming harm, You rest from toil of mind or arm, Or slow retire from Pleasure's charm, If then a painful sense comes on - Of something from your being's chain Upon your heart this truth may rise, Hour So should we live, that every That every Thought and every Deed Esteeming Sorrow, whose employ ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. — Leigh Hunt. ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!) An angel, writing in a book of gold; Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold; And to the presence in the room he said, "What writest thou? The vision raised his head, And, with a look made all of sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, WHEN Fancy will continually rehearse Some painful scene once present to the eye, "T is well to mould it into gentle verse, That it may lighter on the spirit lie. Home yestern eve I wearily returned, Though bright my morning mood and short my way, But sad experience, in one moment earned, Can crush the heaped enjoyments of the day. |