No more no more-oh never more, my heart,
Canst thou be my sole world, my universe;
Once all in all, but now a thing apart,

Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse;
The illusion's gone for ever, and thou art

Insensible, I trust, but none the worse;
And in thy stead, I've got a deal of judgment,
Though heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment.

My days of love are over; me no more

The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow,
Can make the fool of which they made before,-
In short, I must not lead the life I did do;
The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er ;
The copious use of claret is forbid, too;
So for a good old-gentlemanly vice,

I think I must take up with avarice.

Ambition was my idol, which was broken
Before the shrines of Sorrow and of Pleasure;
And the two last have left me many a token,

O'er which reflection may be made at leisure;
Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I've spoken,

"Time is, Time was, Time's past ;"-a chymic treasure Is glittering youth, which I spent betimes

My heart in passion, and my head in rhymes.--Byron.

DEATH THE COMMON LEVELLER.

WHATE'ER our rank may be,

We all partake one common destiny!
In fair expanse of soil,

Teeming with rich return of wine and oil,
His neighbour one outvies;

Another claims to rise

To civic dignities,

Because of ancestry and noble birth,

Or fame, or proud pre-eminence of worth,

Or troops of clients, clamorous in his cause;

Still Fate doth grimly stand,

And with impartial hand

The lots of lofty and of lowly draws

From that capacious urn,

Whence every name that lives is shaken in its turn.

To him, above whose guilty head,

Suspended by a thread,

The naked sword is hung for evermore,

Not feasts Sicilian shall

With all their cates recall

That zest the simplest fare could once inspire;
Nor song of birds, nor music of the lyre

Shall his lost sleep restore :

But gentle sleep shuns not

The rustic's lowly cot,

Nor mossy bank o'ercanopied with trees,

Nor Tempe's leafy vale stirred by the western breeze.

The man who lives content with whatsoe'er

Sufficeth for his needs,

The storm-tossed ocean vexeth not with care,
Nor the fierce tempest which Arcturus breeds
When in the sky he sets,

Nor that which Hœdus, at his rise, begets;
Nor will he grieve although
His vines be all laid low

Beneath the driving hail;

Nor though, by reason of the drenching rain,
Or heat, that shrivels up his fields like fire,
Or fierce extremities of winter's ire,

Blight shall o'erwhelm his fruit-trees and his grain,
And all his farms delusive promise fail.

The fish are conscious that a narrower bound

Is drawn the seas around

By masses huge hurled down into the deep.
There, at the bidding of a lord, for whom
Not all the land he owns is ample room,
Do the contractor and his labourers heap
Vast piles of stone, the ocean back to sweep.
But let him climb in pride,
That lord of halls unblest,
Up to their topmost crest,

Yet ever by his side

Clim Terror and Unrest;

Within the brazen galley's sides,

Care, ever wakeful, flits,

And at his back, when forth in state he rides,
Her withering shadow sits.

If thus it fare with all,

If neither marbles from the Phrygian mine,
Nor star-bright robes of purple and of pall,
Nor the Falernian wine,

Nor costliest balsams fetched from farthest Ind,
Can soothe the restless mind,

Why should I choose

To rear on high, as modern spendthrifts use,

A lofty hall, might be the home for kings,
With portals vast, for Malice to abuse,
Or Envy make her theme to point a tale;

Or why for wealth, which new-born trouble brings,
Exchange my Sabine vale?

Horace (trans. Theo. Martin).

A PERSIAN SONG.

SWEET maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight,
And bid these arms thy neck enfold;

That rosy cheek, that lily hand,
Would give the poet more delight
Than all Bokhara's vaunted gold,
Than all the gems of Samarcand.
Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy pensive heart be glad,
Whate'er the frowning zealots say:
Tell them their Eden cannot show
A stream so clear as Rocnabad,
A bower so sweet as Mosellay.

Oh, when these fair perfidious maids,
Whose eyes our secret haunts infest,
Their dear destructive charms display,
Each glance my tender breast invades,
And robs my wounded soul of rest,
As Tartars seize their destined prey.
In vain with love our bosoms glow :
Can all our tears, can all our sighs,
New lustre to those charms impart?
Can cheeks, whose living roses blow
Where nature spreads her richest dyes,
Require the borrowed gloss of art?

Speak not of fate: ah! change the theme,
And talk of odours, talk of wine,
Talk of the flowers that round us bloom :
'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream;

To love and joy thy thoughts confine,
Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom.

Beauty has such resistless power,
That even the chaste Egyptian dame
Sighed for the blooming Hebrew boy;
For her, how fatal was the hour
When to the banks of Nilus came
A youth so lovely and so coy!

But ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear-
Youth should attend when those advise
Whom long experience renders sage-
While music charms the ravished ear,
While sparkling cups delight our eyes,
Be gay, and scorn the frowns of age.
What cruel answer have I heard?
And yet, by Heaven, I love thee still.
Can ought be cruel from thy lip?
Yet say, how fell that bitter word
From lips which streams of sweetness fill,
Which nought but drops of honey sip?
Go boldly forth, my simple lay,
Whose accents flow with artless ease,
Like orient pearls at random strung
Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say,
But oh! far sweeter, if they please

The nymph for whom these notes are sung!-Hafiz.

TIMES GO BY TURNS.

THE lopped tree in time may grow again,

Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorriest wight may find release of pain,

The driest soil suck in some moistening shower. Times go by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

The sea of fortune doth not ever flow;

She draws her favours to the lowest ebb : Her tides have equal times to come and go;

Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web.

No joy so great but runneth to an end,
No hap so hard but may in fine arend.
Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring,

Not endless night, nor yet eternal day;
The saddest birds a season find to sing,

The roughest storm a calm may soon allay. Thus with succeeding turns God tempers all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. A chance may win that by mischance was lost; That net that holds no great, takes little fish; In some things all, in all things none are crost; Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys here to no man befall; Who least, hath some, who most hath never all. Robert Southwell, 1560-1592.

THE JOURNEY OF LIFE.

WE rise in the morning of youth, full of vigour and full of expectation; we set forward with spirit and hope, with gaiety and with diligence, and travel on a while in a straight road of piety towards the mansions of rest. In a short time we remit our fervour, and endeavour to find some mitigation of our duty, and some more easy means of obtaining the same end. We then relax our vigour, and resolve no longer to be terrified with crimes at a distance, but rely upon our own constancy, and venture to approach what we resolve never to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose in the shades of security. Here the heart softens, and vigilance subsides; we are then willing to inquire whether another advance cannot be made, and whether we may not, at least, turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleasure. We approach them with scruple and hesitation; we enter them, but enter timorous and trembling, and always hope to pass through them without losing the road of virtue, which we, for a while, keep in our sight, and to which we propose to return. But temptation succeeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us for another; we in time lose the happiness of innocence, and solace our disquiet with sensual gratifications. By degrees we let fall the remembrance of our original intention, and quit the only adequate object of rational desire. We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy, till the darkness of old age begins to invade us, and disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look back upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repentance; and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue. Happy are they who shall remember, that though the day is past and their strength wasted, there yet remains one effort to be made; that reformation is never hopeless, nor sincere endeavours ever unassisted; that the wanderer may at length return after all his errors; and that he who implores strength and courage from above, shall find danger and difficulty give way before him.-Johnson's "Rambler."

CORPORAL TRIM ON THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT. "I WILL enter into obligations this moment," said my father, "to lay out all my Aunt Dinah's legacy in charitable uses (of which, by the bye, my father had no high opinion), if the corporal has any one determinate idea annexed to any one word he has repeated." "Prithee, Trim," quoth my father, turning round to him, "what dost thou mean by 'honouring thy father and thy mother' ?" Allowing them, an' please your honour, three-halfpence a day out of my pay when they grew old." "And didst thou do that, Trim?" said Yorick. did, indeed," replied my Uncle Toby. "Then, Trim," said Yorick, springing out of his chair, and taking the corporal by the hand, "thou art the best commentator upon that part of the Decalogue; and I honour thee more for it, Corporal Trim, than if thou hadst had a hand in the Talmud itself."--Tristram Shandy.

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