EDMUND SPENSER. SPENSER was one of the great men who from age to age mark out the general course of poetry, and who take a place among the few selected from the illustrious of every age whom we look up to as the instructors of all time. He claimed to be descended from a noble family, though the chief evidence of the truth of the assertion is that he took his place in Queen Elizabeth's court as a gentleman of birth. He was born in East Smithfield about the year 1553, in humble circumstances. In his sixteenth year he was entered as a sizar at Cambridge, where he continued seven years, and where he took the degree of A. M. After leaving Cambridge he obtained an introduction to Sir Philip Sidney, to whom he dedicated his first poem, "The Shepherd's Calendar," published in 1579. He seems to have been employed at court, much to his distaste, on various state missions, and experienced much of the discomfort of a hangerIn 1580, however, he was appointed secretary to the viceroy of Ireland, and six years afterward he obtained a grant of forfeited land in the county of Cork, where he fixed his residence in the old castle of Kilcolman. Here he brought home his wife. the "Elizabeth" of his sonnets, and here he wrote the greater part of his immortal poem the "Faery Queen." The first part was pub on. lished in 1589, and met with an enthusiastic reception. Queen Elizabeth at once settled a pension of fifty pounds a year on the poet. In 1596 the second part of the Faery Queen" issued from the press. It was intended to have been continued, but was never completed. But fortune, which had so long befriended him, now changed; the Tyrone rebellion broke out in 1598, his house was burned by the rebels, and his He infant child perished in the flames. had to flee with his wife to England in the greatest destitution, and, dejected and heartbroken, he died in the following year, in the forty-fifth year of his age, in a small lodging in London. His remains were laid beside those of Chaucer in Poet's Corner. "The term 'faery' is used by Spenser to denote something existing in the regions of fancy, and the Faery Queen is the impersonation of glory; the knights of Faeryland are the twelve virtues, who are the champions of the queen." ROBERT INGLIS. THE SOLDIER'S TEAR. And all with attention would eagerly mark PON the hill he turned to take the last When he cheered up the pack: "Hark to UPON fond look Of the valley and the village church and the And all with attention would eagerly mark cottage by the brook; He listened to the sound so familiar to his ear, And the soldier leaned upon his sword and wiped away a tear. When he cheered up the pack: "Hark to Rockwood! Hark! hark! High! wind him and cross him! dressed Beside that cottage-porch a girl was on her Six crafty earth-stoppers in hunter's green knees; She held aloft a snowy scarf which fluttered Supported poor Tom to an earth made for in the breeze; rest; She breathed a prayer for him—a prayer he His horse-which he styled his Old Soul— could not hear; next appeared, But he paused to bless her as she knelt, and On whose forehead the brush of his last fox wiped away a tear. The bell just done tolling was honest Tom's A more able sportsman ne'er followed a hound miles round; was reared; Whip, cap, boots and spurs in a trophy were bound, And here and there followed an old straggling hound. Ah! no more at his voice yonder vales will they trace, Nor the wrekin resound his first burst in the chase With "High over now! Press him! Tallyho, tally-ho, tally-ho!" Thus Tom spoke his friends ere he gave up his breath: "Since I see you're resolved to be in at the One favor bestow-'tis the last I will crave. grave, And unless at that warning I lift up my head, No hound ever opened with Tom near the My boys, you may fairly conclude I am dead." wood But he'd challenge the tone and could tell if 'twas good, Honest Tom was obeyed, and the shout rent the sky, For every voice joined in the "tally-ho!" cry. Honest Tom was obeyed, and the shout rent | I owned but sunlight that they took. W THE OLD VAGRANT. ANON. FROM THE FRENCH OF PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGER. ELL, in this ditch I reach at last, Old, weak and tired, my closing day; Folks say I'm drunk, then hurry past: Good! there's no pity thrown away. Yet some across their shoulders glance; Others a mite or two have thrown. Nay, hasten on! you'll miss the dance: Old vagrant, I can die alone. Yes, here, of age, they'll say I die; Have sighed, as for a last resource! So poor the people now are grown. Ne'er nurse had I but the cold ground: Old vagrant, there I'll die alone. In youth the artisans I prayed For leave a useful craft to learn. "We are but half employed," they said; I might have stolen, poor soul! 'tis true; Over the hedges on my road. They barred me in their prisons lone: Poor vagrant, I can die alone. Oh, can the poor a country have? What are to me your corn and wine, Your industry, your armies brave, Your parliaments where statesmen shine? When in your fields, seized by his power, The stranger reaped what ye had sown, Like a true fool my eyes did shower: Old vagrant, I shall die alone. Why, as mere noxious reptiles viewed, Men, do you crush us 'neath your heel? Instruct our minds in what is good: We'll labor for the public weal. She wept, delivered from her danger; But when he knelt to claim her glove, "Seek not," she cried, "O gallant stranger, For hapless Adelgitha's love. "For he is in a foreign far land Whose arm should now have set me free: And I must wear the willow garland For him that's dead, or false to me." Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!” He raised his vizor. At the sight She fell into his arms and fainted: It was indeed her own true knight! THOMAS CAMPBELL. WILLIE BAIRD. 'S two and thirty summers of Inverburn. My father was a shepherd Yonder above you? Are you dead, my doo, To school the village lads The clouds above and becks the bonnie birds old and poor, hills, His tartan plaidie on, and by his side His sheep-dog running, reddened with the Oh, well I mind the day his mother brought But waited silently with shoeless feet watched The small black bell that stands behind the | Which beat the mathematics. Quærere door Verum in sylvis Academi, sir, And ring the shouting laddies from their Is meet for men who can afford to dwell play: For ever in a garden, reading books "Run, Willie !" And he ran and eyed the Of morals and the logic. Good and well! bell, Give me such tiny truths as only bloom Stooped o'er it, seemed afraid that it would Like red-tipt gowans at the hallanstone, Or kindle softly, flashing bright at times, In fuffing cottage fires. bite, Then grasped it firm, and as it jingled gave And ran full merry to the door and rang Then, rapping sharply on the desk, I drove While Willie sat and listened open-mouthed I beckoned to the mannock with a smile, First he was timid, next grew bashful, next A gig to drive his father to the kirk, The laddie still Was seated on my knee when at the door We heard a scrape-scrape-scraping. Willie pricked His ears and listened, then he clapt his hands: "Hey! Donald, Donald, Donald!" (See! the rogue Looks up and blinks his eyes: he knows his name.) Hey, Donald, Donald!" Willie cried. At I saw beneath me, at the door, a dog- half At sight of Willie, with a joyful bark Into An old man's tale-a tale for men gray haired Who wear through second childhood to the grave: I'll hasten on. Thenceforward Willie came |