I MADE a posie, while the day ran by :
Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie
My life within this band.
But time did beckon to the flowers, and they
By noon most cunningly did steal away,
And withered in my hand.

My hand was next to them, and then my heart;
I took, without more thinking, in good part
Time's gentle admonition;
Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey,
Making my minde to smell my fatall day,

Yet sugring the suspicion.

Farewell, dear flowers, sweetly your time ye spent,
Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornament,
And after death for cures.
I follow straight without complaints or grief,
Since, if my scent be good, I care not, if
It be as short as yours.

LIFE.

GEORGE HERBERT.

My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
But, ere the shades of evening close,
Is scattered on the ground, to die!
Yet on the rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,

"BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN."

O, DEEM not they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep ; The Power who pities man has shown A blessing for the eyes that weep.

The light of smiles shall fill again

The lids that overflow with tears; And weary hours of woe and pain Are promises of happier years.

There is a day of sunny rest

For every dark and troubled night; And grief may bide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.

And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier,
Sheddest the bitter drops like rain,
Hope that a brighter, happier sphere
Will give him to thy arms again,

Nor let the good man's trust depart, Though life its common gifts deny, Though with a pierced and bleeding heart, And spurned of men, he goes to die.

For God hath marked each sorrowing day
And numbered every secret tear,
And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay
For all his children suffer here.

WILLIAM CULI EN BRYANT.

LIFE.

THIS life, sae far 's I understand,

Is a enchanted fairy land,

Where Pleasure is the magic wand,

That, wielded right,

Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, Dance by fu' light.

The magic wand then let us wield; For, ance that five-an'-forty 's speeled, See crazy, weary, joyless eild,

Wi' wrinkled face,

Comes hostin', hirplin', owre the field,
Wi' creepin' pace.

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin',
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin';
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin',
An' social noise;

An' fareweel dear, deluding woman!
The joy of joys!

O Life! how pleasant in thy morning,
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning!
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning,
We frisk away,

Like school-boys, at the expected warning,
To joy and play.

We wander there, we wander here,
We eye the rose upon the brier,
Unmindful that the thorn is near,

Amang the leaves :

And though the puny wound appear,
Short while it grieves.

A MEDITATION ON THE FRAILTY OF THIS LIFE.

O TRIFLING toys that toss the brains
While loathsome life doth last;

O wished wealth, O sugared joys,
O life when death is past!

Who loathes exchange of loss with gain?
Yet loathe we death as hell.

What woful wight would wish his woe?
Yet wish we here to dwell.

O Fancy frail, that feeds on earth,
And stays on slippery joys!
O noble mind, O happy man,

That can contemn such toys!

Such toys as neither perfect are,
And cannot long endure;
Our greatest skill, our sweetest joy,
Uncertain and unsure.

For life is short, and learning long,
All pleasure mixt with woe;
Sickness and sleep steal time unseen,
And joys do come and go.

BUSY, CURIOUS, THIRSTY FLY.

[Last verse added by Rev. J. Plumtree.}
Busy, curious, thirsty fly,
Drink with me, and drink as I;
Freely welcome to my cup,
Couldst thou sip and sip it up.
Make the most of life you may;
Life is short, and wears away.

Both alike are mine and thine,
Hastening quick to their decline;
Thine's a summer, mine no more,
Though repeated to threescore.
Threescore summers, when they're gone,
Will appear as short as one.

Yet this difference we may see
"Twixt the life of man and thee,
Thou art for this life alone,
Man seeks another when 't is gone;
And though allowed its joys to share,
Tries virtue here, hopes pleasure there.

VINCENT BOURNE.

THE VANITY OF THE WORLD. FALSE world, thou ly'st thou canst not lend The least delight:

Thy favors cannot gain a friend,
They are so slight:

Thy morning pleasures make an end
To please at night:

Poor are the wants that thou supply'st,

And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st
With heaven; fond earth, thou boasts; false
world, thou ly'st.

Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales
Of endless treasure ;

Thy bounty offers easy sales

Of lasting pleasure;

Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails,
And swear'st to ease her;

There's none can want where thou supply'st :
There's none can give where thou deny'st.
Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou

ly'st.

What well-advised car regards

What earth can say?

Thy words are gold, but thy rewards
Are painted clay:

Thy cunning can but pack the cards,
Thou canst not play :

Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st;
If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st:

Thou art not what thou scem'st; false world, thou ly'st.

Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been;
I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell;
Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell
Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between ;
Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen
Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my
spell

Is now a shaken shadow intolerable,
Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen.

Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart
One moment through my soul the soft surprise
Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of
sighs,
Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart
Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart
Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.

LINES

WRITTEN BY ONE IN THE TOWER, BEING YOUNG AND
CONDEMNED TO DIE.

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares ;
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain ;
My crop of corn is but a field of tares;

And all my good is but vain hope of gain :
The day is [fled], and yet I saw no sun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!
The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung;

The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green; My youth is gone, and yet I am but young;

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen:
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

I sought my death, and found it in my womb;
I looked for life, and saw it was a shade;
I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb;
And now I die, and now I am but made;
The glass is full, and now my glass is run;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

CHIDIOCK TYCHBORN.

LINES

WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS EXECUTION.

E'EN such is time; which takes on trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with earth and dust; Which in the dark and silent grave,