Like the best things and the fairest
That God e'er gives to earth,
Which tremblingly we love, and see
Death's seal upon from birth,—
Are fleeting quickly from us,

With none to heed nor care,
Nor swell the mighty hymn of praise
That fills the morning air.

But hark! amid the valleys
Resounds the milkmaid's song,
As her foot is lightly brushing
The dew and flowers among.
No classic beauty in her face,
No curving lip to tell
That at Agincourt or Cressy

Her lordly fathers fell;

That at the sepulchre of Christ,

Or under Acre's walls,

Their bones had whiten'd in the sun, Far from their native halls.

Her ancestors were yeomen stout,

Who, with the good yew bow, To battle at their lord's behest Right gallantly would go;

And bravely bled, and fought and fell, But fell without a name,

Amid the unknown thousands

That build one captain's fame.

THE MILKMAID.

In peaceful times they guarded sheep

On many a grassy hill,

And acres broad within the vale

The milkmaid's kindred till.

And when for fourscore winters drear,
And golden summers, they

Have sown the seed, and reap'd the corn,
And gather'd in the hay,

When life's long-working day is o'er,
They've laid them down to rest
In hope, undamp'd by subtle doubts,
Of walking with the blest.
And the same bells that gaily peal'd
Upon their marriage-morn,

Now tolling tell the villagers
That dust to dust is borne;
That vacant is the oaken chair,
Beside the hearth at e'en;
That no more in the house of God
The grey head will be seen.

Such is the maiden's ancestry ;-
As light she trips along,

The fragrant banks and waving woods
Give back her artless song.

And the green linnet 'mid the boughs,
And blithe lark in the sky,

Seem each provoked to join the tune
In very sympathy.

179

M. HARRISON.

LINES

FOR THE FIRST LEAVES OF AN ALBUM.

LET this Album, bright-soul'd maiden,
Be an emblem of thy life;

Let not its fair leaves be laden
With a single thought of strife.

Let no vain, unreal sorrow
Blur the beauty of the page;
No unknown, unborn " to morrow"
Lend to youth the hue of age.

Empty wishes-eager throngings

Of vague hopes that cry for food;— Ever-anxious, restless longings

After absent, distant good:

From all these, and all who bring them,
Shut thy life, and seal thy book;
From thy soul, like shadows, fling them;

Banish them by one bright look.

Here all pleasant fancies hover

All that at once are bright and brief: The raptures of the happy lover,

But not a jot of his fond grief.

The wit (if you can chance to find it),
Where good nature points the dart;
The wisdom that, when bright thoughts bind it,
Softens, but saddens not the heart.

Nay-let e'en nothings find a place,
If they are prettily disguised ones:
He who says nothings with a grace,

Is worth a score of would-be-wise ones.

Nor let the pencil's magic art

Be wanting to complete thy pages: That can more vivid thoughts impart Than all the pens of all the sages;

That can lend forms to thy fair book
The pen alone could compass never;
That can arrest the fleeting look,

And fix the fugitive for ever.

ANON.

IMPROMPTU

WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF THE SONNERBERG.

THOU who within thyself dost not behold
Ruins as great as these, though not as old,
Can'st scarce through life have travelled many

a year,

Or lack'st the spirit of a pilgrim here.

Youth hath its walls of strength, its tow'rs of

pride,

Love its warm hearth-stones, hope its prospects

wide,

Life's fortress in thee held these one and all, And they have fallen to ruin, or shall fall.

F. BUTLER.

THE MINSTREL'S DEATH-SONG.

Ir was on Hasting's fated plain
The red sun low'ring rose,

The viewless choosers of the slain
Waiting the day's dread close.