AN EPITAPH.

T Believe me, reader, can say more

THE modest front of this small Aoor

Believe me, reader, can say more Than many a braver marble can, “ Here lies a truly honest man!” One whose conscience was a thing That troubled neither church nor king ; One of those few that in this town Honour all preachers, hear their own. Sermons he heard, yet not so many As left no time to practice any; He heard them reverently, and then His practice preach'd them o'er again ; His parlour-sermons rather were Those to the eye, than to the ear ; His prayers took their price and strength Not from the loudness nor the length; He was a protestant at home, Not only in despite of Rome ; He loved his father, yet his zeal Tore not off his mother's veil ; To th' church he did allow her dress, True beauty to true holiness ; Peace, which he loved in life, did lend Her hand to bring him to his end ;

When age

and death call'd for the score,
No surfeits were to reckon for ;
Death tore not, therefore, but, sans strife,
Gently untwined his thread of life.
What remains, then, but that thou
Write these lines, reader, on thy brow,
And, by his fair example's light,
Burn in thy imitation bright?
So, while these lines can but bequeath
A life, perhaps, unto his death,
His better epitaph shall be —
His life still kept alive in thee.

Richard Crashaw. 1637-1650.

THE TOUCHSTONE.

A

MAN there came, whence none could tell,
Bearing a touchstone in his hand;

And tested all things in the land
By its unerring spell.

Quick birth of transmutation smote

The fair to foul, the foul to fair ;

Purple nor ermine did he spare, Nor scorn the dusty coat.

Of heirloom jewels, prized so much,

Were many changed to chips and clods,

And even statues of the gods Crumbled beneath its touch.

Then angrily the people cried, -
“The loss outweighs the profit far ;

Our goods suffice us as they are ;
We will not have them tried.”

And since they could not so avail

To check this unrelenting guest,

They seized him, saying — “Let him test How real is our jail ! '

But, though they slew him with the sword,

And in a fire his Touchstone burn'd,

Its doings could not be o'erturn'd, Its undoings restored.

And when, to stop all future harm,

They strew'd its ashes on the breeze,

They little guesťd each grain of these Convey'd the perfect charm.

William Allingham.

A

LAS these visits rare and rude

Unto Thy holy place !
Our weak, wild bursts of gratitude,

Thy calm, clear deeps of grace.

A

Oh, never shall Thy mercy make

Our souls to rest in Thine ? Nor mortal gratitude partake

The flow of grace divine ?

When shall our grateful raptures rise

Fast as Thy grace descends, And link to endless harmonies The love that never ends ?

T. H. Gill.

CONTENT.

EACE, muttering thoughts ! and do not grudge

to keep Within the walls of your own breast. Who cannot on his own bed sweetly sleep

Can on another's hardly rest.

Gad not abroad at every quest and call

Of an untrained hope or passion.
To court each place or fortune that doth fall,

Is wantonness in contemplation.

Mark, how the fire in Aints doth quiet lie

Content and warm t’itself alone;
But when it would appear to others' eye,

Without a knock it never shone.

Give me the pliant mind, whose gentle measure

Complies and suits with all estates; Which can let loose to

a crown, and yet with pleasure Take up within a cloister's gates.

This soul doth span the world, and hang content

From either pole unto the centre: