TRIUMPHING chariots, statues, crowns of bays, Sky-threatening arches, the rewards of worth; Books heavenly-wise in sweet harmonious lays,

Which men divine unto the world set forth; States which ambitious minds, in blood, do raise

From frozen Tanais unto sun-burnt Gange;
Gigantic frames held wonders rarely strange,
Like spiders' webs, are made the sport of days.
Nothing is constant but in constant change,
What's done still is undone, and when undone
Into some other fashion doth it range;
Thus goes the floating world beneath the

A GOOD that never satisfies the mind,

A beauty fading like the April showers,
A sweet with floods of gall that runs com-
bined,

A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,
A honor that more fickle is than wind,
A glory at opinion's frown that lowers,
A treasury which bankrupt time devours,
A knowledge than grave ignorance more
blind,

A vain delight our equals to command,
A style of greatness in effect a dream,
A swelling thought of holding sea and land,
A servile lot, decked with a pompous name:
Are the strange ends we toil for here below
Till wisest death makes us our errors know.
WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

A SWEET PASTORAL. GOOD Muse, rock me asleep With some sweet harmony! The weary eye is not to keep Thy wary company.

Sweet love, begone awhile! Thou know'st my heaviness; Beauty is born but to beguile My heart of happiness.

See how my little flock,
That loved to feed on high,
Do headlong tumble down the rock,
And in the valley die.

The bushes and the trees,
That were so fresh and green,
Do all their dainty color lease,
And not a leaf is seen.

Sweet Philomel, the bird
That hath the heavenly throat,
Doth now, alas! not once afford
Recording of a note.

The flowers have had a frost; Each herb hath lost her savor; And Phillida, the fair, hath lost The comfort of her favor.

Now all these careful sights
So kill me in conceit,

That how to hope upon delights
Is but a mere deceit.

And, therefore, my sweet Muse, Thou know'st what help is best; Do now thy heavenly cunning use To set my heart at rest.

And in a dream bewray
What fate shall be my friend-
Whether my life shall still decay,
Or when my sorrow end.

NICHOLAS BRETON.

HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY.

THE awful shadow of some unseen power Floats, though unseen, among us-visiting This various world with as inconstant wing As summer winds that creep from flower to flower;

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Why fear, and dream, and death, and birth

Cast on the daylight of this earth

Such gloom; why man has such a scope For love and hate, despondency and hope.

No voice from some sublimer world hath ever To sage or poet these responses given; Therefore the names of demon, ghost, and heaven,

Remain the records of their vain endeavorFrail spells, whose uttered charm might not avail to sever

From all we hear and all we see

Doubt, chance, and mutability.

Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountains driven,

Or music by the night wind sent

Through strings of some still instrument, Or moonlight on a midnight stream, Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream.

Love, hope, and self-esteem, like clouds depart

And come, for some uncertain moments lent.

mountain shower,

It visits with inconstant glance
Each human heart and countenance,
Like hues and harmonies of evening,

Like clouds in starlight widely spread,
Like memory of music fled,

Like aught that for its grace may be Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery.

Spirit of beauty, that dost consecrate

Keep with thy glorious train firm state with

in his heart.

Thou messenger of sympathies

That wax and wane in lover's eyes!

Thou that to human thought art nourishment,
Like darkness to a dying flame!
Depart not as thy shadow came!
Depart not, lest the grave should be,
Like life and fear, a dark reality.