As weak, yet as trustful also;
For the whole long year I see
All the wonders of faithful Nature
Still worked for the love of me;
Winds wander, and dews drip earthward,
Rain falls, suns rise and set,

Earth whirls, and all but to prosper
A poor little violet.

This child is not mine as the first was,

I cannot sing it to rest;

I cannot lift it up fatherly

And bless it upon my breast;
Yet it lies in my little one's cradle,

And sits in my little one's chair,

And the light of the heaven she's gone to
Transfigures its golden hair.

J. R. Lowell.

THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN.

ALL the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the Infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

And then the whining Schoolboy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the Lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a Soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation

E'en in the cannon's mouth. And then the Justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lined,

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd Pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side:

His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big, manly voice
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange, eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion:
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Shakespere.

CASABIANCA.

Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in the explosion of the vessel when the flames had reached the powder.

THE boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though child-like form.

The flames roll'd on-he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He call'd aloud—" Say, father, say
If yet my task be done!
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!"
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames roll'd on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair;

And look'd from that lone post of death,
In still, yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud,

'My father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,

And stream'd above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound-
The boy-oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strew'd the sea,

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young faithful heart.

Mrs. Hemans.

PYRAMUS AND THISBE.

I SING not now in joyous strain,
To suit these mirthful pages;
Mine is a tale of love and pain,
Black blood and bygone ages.

Some people's wit is small indeed;
But smaller still must his be,
Who never had the luck to read
Of Pyramus and Thisbe.

Of all the beauties of the East,
Fair Thisbe was the star,

And nature gave her-last not least-
A very cross mamma.

Next door there lived a "nice young man,"
One Pyramus by name;
And laughing Cupid soon began
To kindle up a flame.

Then came soft words and softer sighs,
And "hearts for ever true,"

And radiant eyes, like summer skies,
And little billets-doux.

Next Thisbe'd ask to go and walk,
Upon some sly pretence,
And then they'd meet alone, and talk
Across the garden fence.

At last her mother caught her out,
And scarlet grew her forehead.
(6 My stars! Miss, what are you about?
Good gracious me, how horrid !"

She locked her up; our hero too
Was lectured by his father:
"Do that again, sir! just you do!
And won't I whop you-rather."

He begged and prayed: the governor
Still gave that answer gruff-
"Fudge! what's the good of lovin' her?
A boy like you, sir! stuff!

"6 Come, get along !-what's all this fuss?
Let's have no more, sir, pray!"
With broken heart, poor Pyramus
Turn'd in despair away.

He moped all day, and talked to none,
Through dim and lone woods wending:

Men cried, "If this be lover's fun,

Our hearts are worth defending!"

Well, little Love, who's up to snuff,
In pitying mood, one day,
Proposed a plan; and, sure enough,
They tried, and found it pay.

He whispered in the ear of each,
"Seek out some little hole in

Your wall, through which your lover's speech
May echo most consoling."

They searched above, they searched below,
To find affection's keyhole,
Till, just when all appear'd no go,"
They found a little wee hole.

A rotten brick had come in two

They saw the cranny-nay, more,
They saw their love by peeping through,
Ah! "Quid non sentit amor?"

They poked the useless brick away
By digging out the mortar;

And there they pass'd the live-long day
In whispers and "soft sawder."

Then, Thisbe'd cry, "Oh dear, oh dear,
My eyes are full of dust, love;
You must come round and kiss me here;
Indeed, indeed, you must, love."

And then, poor Pyramus would say,
"Oh! bless us, how can this be
I've kissed a dirty lump of clay,
And not my pretty Thisbe !

"Bad wall, bad wall! thy chink is small,
Thy big stones almost hide her;

Why leave a little hole at all,

Unless a little wider?

"O will you meet me quite alone
To-morrow night, my dear,
Bevond brass-gated Babylon,
Where walls can't interfere?