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Pretender, the Scotch, French, and Popery, Fielding supposes the Scotch and the Pretender in possession of London, and himself about to be hanged for loyalty, when, just as the rope is round his neck, he says—My little girl entered

my

bedchamber, and put an end to my dream by pulling open my eyes, and telling me that the tailor had just brought home my clothes for his Majesty's birthday. In his Temple Beau,' the beauis

' dunned for a birthday suit of velvet, 40l. Be sure that Mr. Harry Fielding was dunned too."

In the third year of the reign of Victoria, and the first of her marriage, Leigh Hunt addressed these lines

TO THE QUEEN.
AN OFFERING OF GRATITUDE ON HER MAJESTY'S BIRTHDAY.
The lark dwells lowly, Madam-on the ground-

his
song

within the heavens is found :
The basest heel may wound him ere he rise,
But soar he must, for love exalts his eyes :
Though poor, his heart must loftily be spent,
And he sings free, crown'd with the firmament.

And yet

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A poet thus (if love and later fame
May warrant him to wear that sacred name)
Hoped, in some pause of birthday pomp and

power,
His carol might have reach'd the Sovereign's bower;
Voice of a heart twice touch'd-once in its need,
Once by a kind word, exquisite indeed :
But Care, ungrateful to a heart that long
Had borne him kindly, came and marr'd his song.
Marr’d it and stopp'd, and in his envious soul
Dreamt it had ceased outright and perish'd whole.
Dull god! to know not, after all he knew,
What the best gods, Patience and Love can do.

K

The song was lamed, was hated, yet the bird
High by the lady's bower has still been heard,
Thanking that balm in need, and that delightful word.
Blest be the Queen! blest when the sun goes down;
When rises, blest. May love line her soft crown.
May music's self not more harmonious be
Than the mild manhood by her side and she.
May she be young for ever-ride, dance, sing,
'Twixt cares of state carelessly carolling,
And set all fashions, healthy, blithe, and wise,
From whence good mothers and glad offspring rise.
May everybody love her. May she be
As brave as will, yet soft as charity;
And on her coins be never laurel seen,
But only those fair peaceful locks serene,
Beneath whose waving grace just mingle now
The ripe Guelph cheek and good straight Coburg

brow.
Pleasure and reason! May she every day
See some new good winning its gentle way,
By means of mild and unforbidden men !
And when the sword hath bow'd beneath the pen,
May her own line a patriarch scene unfold,
As far surpassing what these days behold,
E'en in the thunderous gods, iron and steam,
As they the sceptic's doubt or wild man's dream!
And to this end-oh! to this Christian end,
And the sure coming of its next great friend,
May her whole soul this instant, while I sing,
Be smiling, as beneath some angel's wing,
O’er the dear life in life, the small, sweet, new,
Unselfish self, the filial self of two.
Bliss of her future eyes, her pillowed gaze,
On whom a mother's heart thinks close and prays!
Your beadsman, Madam, thus, in spite of sorrow,
Bids at your window, like the cock, good morrow.

a

gift of

These courtly tributes to royalty may be supplemented—first, by a mention of one birthday present—of the giver's portrait set in diamonds-from a king of France to a favourite lady of his court, who, having vowed that she would never receive a

any cost from him, took the gems from their setting, ground them to powder, and sprinkled them as sand over the ink with which she wrote her refusal of the royal gift; and, secondly, with two brief sad records, translated from the Latin, in which they were written by trembling hands which had borne sceptres. The ill-fated Edward II., while in captivity, wrote :

On
my

devoted head,
Her bitterest showers,
All from a wintry cloud,

Stern Fortune pours.
View but her favourite,

Sage and discerning,
Graced with fair comeliness,

Famed for his learning;
Should she withdraw her smiles,
Each
grace

she banishes,
Wisdom and wit are flown,

And beauty vanishes.

And this was the last prayer of Mary Queen of Scots:

Oh! my God and my Lord,

I have trusted in Thee ;
Oh! Jesu, my love,

Now liberate me.
In my enemies' power,
In affliction's sad hour,

I languish for Thee.

In sorrowing, weeping,

And bending the knee,
I adore and implore thee

To liberate me!

In middle life-that is, from the age

of twentyone to fifty—have been performed most of those deeds of arms which fame has trumpeted forth over the world so loudly and perseveringly.

Too many of those whose names have thus been blazoned have had to lament in the manner of Dryden's Mark Antony =

They tell me 'tis my birthday! and I'll keep it With double

pomp

of sadness; 'Tis what the day deserves that gave me breath. Why was I raised, the meteor of the world, Hang in the skies, and blazing as I travell’d, Till all my fires were spent, and then cast down To be trod out by Cæsar?

It was not thus with Sir Kenelm Digby, a naval hero and a patriot of the reign of Charles I. He fitted out at his own expense a squadron against the combined French and Venetian fleets. He was then remarkable for his gigantic stature and wonderful strength, and was altogether a most admirable and attractive person. He died on his birthday, after a naval engagement.

Born on the day he died, the eleventh of June; And that day bravely fought at Scanderoon. How rare that one and the same day should be His day of birth, of death, and victory!

A favourite song of King Charles the Second was this dirge on kings and warriors :

The glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill ;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:

Early or late,

They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds !

Your heads must come

To the cold tomb.
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.

SHIRLEY. Throughout the course of middle life, as Professor Wilson observes, the greater part of time, strength, thought, desire, must be given up to avocations which demand the surrender of self for the good of others; in which it must forego its own delight, or rather must find its delight in service which abstracts it from itself wholly, and chains it to this weary world. In this high service, “ under the Great Taskmaster's eye,” Milton sacrificed his sight, which was suddenly lost to him on a day, the third anni

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