To pass my days and nights with you,
That were my lot if I might choose it.
I pledge my life this word is true —
Alas, that fortune should refuse it.
I dwell two weary miles away,
The homeward road my toil will double,
And all the while I know I may
Have but the journey for my trouble.
For when I come, you are not there,
At least I may not come anigh you;
Or I am told that public care
Or private matters occupy you.
I would not grudge two miles and more
To greet my friend and sit beside him:
'Tis weary work to travel four

You fondle your mother and she fondles you:
You're her " brother" and she is your " sister."
Why those mischievous names, I should much like to know?
Why are you not her son when you've kissed her?
If you think that such conduct is merely a jest,
You're mistaken, my innocent " brother."
When a mother as " sister" would fain be addressed,
She is neither the one nor the other.

You disappoint no creditor, you say?
True, no one ever thought that you would pay.

C RETE gave the mighty name Metellus bore,
Scipio a mightier gained on Afric shore,
But yet more grand the name from conquered Rhine
That, when a child, Germania made thine.
Thy sire and brother won the Jewish crown:
The wreath the Chatti send is all thine own.

You might have borne three hundred pieces? True.
But, if you had, could any bear with you?
Why, little book, of brevity complain?
It saves a waste of paper: that's a gain;
The scribe needs but a single hour, and then
To weightier books may turn his busy pen:
A reader too more easily may brook
The flaws and blunders of a tiny book;
For at a banquet he could read you through,
Ere the mulled wine should cool, so short are you.
Yet though by brevity success you court,
Many will find you long, however short.

The shepherds return'd at the dawn,
To seek for the flow'rets that grew
On the border that skirted the lawn;
But the flowrets were shrunk from the view:
Not a primrose, or vi'let were seen,
Tho' they search'd for them carefully round;
The leaves, that at eve were so green,
Lay scatter'd, and parch'd on the ground.

The blast blew so harsh to the ear
It fill'd their sad bosoms with woe;
Each twig was impregn'd with a tear,

First Shepherd.

Return, ye shepherds, to the Cypress-grove ,
Descending dews impregn the hallow'd sod;
The gentle Spirit , sooth'd with heavenly love,
Reposes, in the bosom of its God.

Here will we meditate, — the lunar-beam
Now shines effulgent thro' the starry-sky,
See, how it twinkles on the rimpled stream,
And gives the Terrace , brightening, to the eye:

How was he wont beside the Urn to stand,

ON The late Rev. C HARLES P ARROTT , Rector of Saham, Norfolk

Come shepherds, and list to the lay,
Come virgins, attend to the verse,
Bring flowrets as fresh as the May,
And scatter them over the hearse, —
The hearse — where my Pollio is laid:
Alas! 'tis with anguish I tell
He's number'd, too soon, with the dead.
How solemn and slow tolls the knell!

Come hither, and haste to prepare —
Ere they snatch the dear Saint from the view,
Bring quickly the primrose so fair,
The pansey, and violet-blue,

SELECT MASTER .

At midnight, as at noon,
The ancient worthies met;
The glances of the moon
Beheld those laborers late;
Nor, till the glancing moon was high,
Did any lay his Trowel by.

Each felt a weight of care,
A solemn charge o'erspread;
Each toiled in earnest there
With busy hand and head;
And to the deep and faithful cave,
Those midnight cratt a secret gave.

In whom the fire burns bright

ROYAL MASTER .

We can predict, from day to day,
Some things will meet us on our way;
But who, of all that draw life's breath,
Can shadow what is after death?;

When spring awakes, we look for flowers,
And leafy boughs and genial bowers;
The flowery spring rewards our faith —
What shall we look for after death?

When autumn spreads its sober skies,
With open lap we wait the prize;
We catch the showering fruits beneath —
For us what fruitage after death?

We trace the infant through each stage