"I will go with you, child,' he said, 'God sends me to this dying bed.' Mother, he 's here, hard by." While thus the little maiden spoke The man, his back against an oak Looked on with glistening eye. The bridle on his neck flung free, A statelier man, a statelier steed, So while the little maiden spoke But when the dying woman's face Saying, My sister! let us pray," And well, withouten book or stole (God's words were printed on his soul), Into the dying ear He breathed, as 't were an angel's strain, The things that unto life pertain, And death's dark shadows clear. He spoke of sinners' lost estate, He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil, Of happiness above. Then, as the spirit ebbed away, And then the orphans' sobs alone Were heard, as they knelt every one Close round on the green grass. Such was the sight their wondering eyes Back each man reined his pawing steed, And lighted down, as if agreed, In silence at his side; And there, uncovered all, they stood; For of the noblest of the land Was that deep-hushed, bareheaded band; By that dead pauper on the ground, * MUTABILITY. — Shelley. WE are as clouds that veil the midnight moon; Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings We rest, -a dream has power to poison sleep; We rise,-one wandering thought pollutes the day; We feel, conceive, or reason, laugh or weep, Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away; It is the same! for, be it joy or sorrow, The path of its departure still is free; Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow; *George the Third of England. TO THE MOON.- Shelley. ART thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a different birth, — And ever-changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy? OF A CONTENTED MIND. WHEN all is done and said, In th' end thus shall you find: To deem can be content The body subject is To fickle Fortune's power, Is casual every hour; And death in time doth change It to a clod of clay; Whereas the mind, which is divine, Companion none is like Unto the mind alone; For many have been harmed by speech, Through thinking, few or none. Fear oftentimes restraineth words, Our wealth leaves us at death; The sweetest time of all my life THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.-Percy. It was a friar of orders gray Walked forth to tell his beads, And he met with a lady fair, Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. "Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar ! I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My truelove you did see." "And how should I your truelove know From many another one?" “O, by his cockle hat and staff, And by his sandal shoon. "But chiefly by his face and mien, |