The stately stag, that seems so stout, Is caught at length in fowler's net; Doth fade at length, and fall away: There is no thing but time doth waste-The heavens, the earth consume at last. But Virtue sits triumphing still Upon the throne of glorious Fame; Though spiteful Death man's body kill, Yet hurts he not his virtuous name. By life or death, whatso betides, The state of Virtue never slides. VIRTUE. ANONYMOUS. SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, GEORGE HERBERT. DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. THE glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substartial things; There is no armor against FateDeath lays his icy hands on kings; Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made 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! To the cold tomb Only the actions of the just JAMES SHIRLEY. THE HERMIT. Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, Nor yet for the ravage of Winter I mournKind nature the embryo blossom will save: But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn? O when shall day dawn on the night of the grave?" When nought but the torrent is heard on the "T was thus, by the glare of false science behill, trayed, And nought but the nightingale's song in the That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind, grove, 'T was thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began; No more with himself or with nature at war, He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man: My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. "O pity, great Father of light," then I cried, "Thy creature, who fain would not wander from Thee! Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride; "Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and From doubt and from darkness Thou only O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass See truth, love, and mercy in triumph deaway! scending, turn. Full quickly they pass-but they never re- And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending, "Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky, The moon, half extinguished, her crescent displays; But lately I marked when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pur sue The path that conducts thee to splendor again! But man's faded glory what change shall renew? Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain! "Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more. I mourn-but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew. And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.' THE STRIFE. JAMES BEATTIE THE wish that of the living whole No life may fail beyond the grave— Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul? Are God and nature then at strife, That I, considering every where Her secret meaning in her deeds, And finding that of fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear |