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For you and me to heart to take

(0 dear beloved brother readers) To-day as when the good King spake Beneath the solemn Syrian cedars.

THE END OF THE PLAY.

THE play is done; the curtain drops,
Slow falling to the prompter's bell:
A moment yet the actor stops,

And looks around, to say farewell.
It is an irksome word and task;
And, when he 's laughed and said his say,
He shows, as he removes the mask,
A face that's any thing but gay.

One word, ere yet the evening ends,

Let's close it with a parting rhyme, And pledge a hand to all young friends, As fits the merry Christmas-time.*

On life's wide scene you, too, have parts,
That Fate ere long shall bid you play;
Good-night! with honest gentle hearts
A kindly greeting go alway!

Good-night!-I'd say, the griefs, the joys,
Just hinted in this mimic page,
The triumphs and defeats of boys,
Are but repeated in our age.
I'd say, your woes were not less keen,
Your hopes more vain than those of men;
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen

At forty-five played o'er again.

I'd say, we suffer and we strive,

Not less cor more as men than boys;
With grizzled beards at forty-five,
As erst at twelve in corduroys.
And if, in time of sacred youth,

We learned at home to love and pray,
Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth
May never wholly pass away.

And in the world, as in the school,

I'd say, how fate may change and shift; The prize be sometimes with the fool, The race not always to the swift. The strong may yield, the good may fall, The great man be a vulgar clown, The knave be lifted over all,

The kind cast pitilessly down.

Who knows the inscrutable design?

Blessed be He who took and gave! Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, Be weeping at her darling's grave? We bow to Heaven that willed it so, That darkly rules the fate of all, That sends the respite or the blow, That's free to give, or to recall.

These verses were printed at the end of a Christmas-Book (1845-49), " Dr. Birch and his Young Friends."

This crowns his feast with wine and wit:

Who brought him to that mirth and state? His betters, see, below him sit,

Or hunger hopeless at the gate.
Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel
To spurn the rags of Lazarus ?
Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel,
Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus.

So each shall mourn, in life's advance,
Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed;
Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance,
And longing passion unfulfilled.
Amen! whatever fate be sent,

Pray God the heart may kindly glow,
Although the head with cares be bent,
And whitened with the winter snow.

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let young and old accept their part, And bow before the Awful Will,

And bear it with an honest heart, Who misses or who wins the prize.

Go, lose or conquer as you can; But if you fail, or if you rise,

Be each, pray God, a gentleman.

A gentleman, or old or young!

(Bear kindly with my humble lays); The sacred chorus first was sung

Upon the first of Christmas days: The shepherds heard it overheadThe joyful angels raised it then: Glory to Heaven on high, it said,

And peace on earth to gentle men. My song, save this, is little worth; I lay the weary pen aside, And wish you health, and love, and mirth, As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. As fits the Holy Christmas birth,

Be this, good friends, our carol stillBe peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will.

ROBERT BROWNING was born in Camberwell, a suburb of London, in 1812. He was educated at London University, and in 1832 went to Italy, where he spent several years in study, devoting himself especially to medieval history. But while he explored the dusty recesses of old libraries, he also became familiar with the life of the Italians of to-day.

In 1835 he published "Paracelsus," a dramatic poem, which did not attract popular attention. In 1837 his tragedy of "Strafford" was brought out in London, with Macready as the principal character, but was hardly successful. In 1840 he published "Sordello," a long poem in rhymed heroics, which few have read and none can understand. Between 1842 and 1846 he published a series of dramatic and lyric poems, under the general title of "Bells and Pomegranates." It contained the first poems he had written which were at all adapted to popular comprehension, and included "The Blot in the 'Scutcheon," a powerful tragedy. This play was brought out at Drury Lane in 1843, but without much success.

In 1846 Mr. Browning married Elizabeth Barrett, and they went immediately to Italy, where they soon settled at Florence. The story of their courtship and of their life in Florence is told in the sketch of Mrs. Browning, at page 221.

In 1849 a collected edition of Mr. Browning's poems was published in London and in Boston, Mass., and from that date they have had a much greater number of readers, though, with the exception of a few pieces like "The Pied Piper of Hamelin" and "How they brought the Good News," they have never been widely popular. In 1850 he published "Christmas Eve and Easter Day," and in 1855 "Men and Women," the finest of his collected volumes of short poems. "The Ring and the Book," published in 1871, is the longest poem in the English language. It is a bloody story from Florentine history, told over and over again, each time being seen through different eyes and presenting a new phase. In the same year he published "Balaustion's Adventure " and "Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau," in 1872 "Fifine at the Fair," in 1873 "The Red Cotton Nightcap Country," in 1875 "Aristoph. anes' Apology," and in 1876 "The Inn Album."

After the death of his wife in 1861, Mr. Browning returned with their son to London, where he has since resided.

It is impossible to say where the verdict of the future will place Browning among our poets; but it seems likely that he will be more rever enced than read, and more stolen from than quoted.

'Twas a moonset at starting; but while we drew

near

Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;

At Boom a great yellow star came out to see; At Düffeld 't was morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the

half-chime

So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time!"

At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one,

To stare through the mist at us galloping past;
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray;

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear

bent back

For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;