Then Money came; and, chinking still

"What tune is this, poor man?"

said he;

66 I heard in music you had skill." But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came brave Glory puffing by, In silks, that whistled "Who but he?"

He scarce allowed me half an eye. But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came quick Wit and Conversation;

And he would needs a comfort be, And, to be short, make an oration. But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Yet, when the hour of thy design To answer these fine things shall come,

Speak not at large; say I am thine; And then they have their answer home.

HERBERT.

ETON COLLEGE.

YE distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful Science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade;
And ye, that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights the expanse
below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead, survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among

Wanders the hoary Thames along
His silver-winding way:

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!
Ah, fields beloved in vain!
Where once my careless childhood
strayed,

A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales that from ye blow
A momentary bliss bestow,

As waving fresh their gladsome wing,

My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

Say, father Thames, for thou hast

seen

Full many a sprightly race Disporting on thy margent green, The paths of pleasure trace; Who foremost now delight to cleave, With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which inthrall? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball?

While some on earnest business bent,

Their murmuring labors ply 'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint

To sweeten liberty:

Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare de-
scry:

Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast:
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer, of vigor born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly the approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom,

The little victims play;

No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day:
Yet see, how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful
train!

Ah, show them where in ambush stand,

To seize their prey, the murth❜rous band!

Ah, tell them, they are men!

ALL the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse's

arms:

And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel,

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school: and then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow: then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth: and then the justice

In fair round belly, with good capon lined,

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern in

SUN-DIAL.

THE shadow on the dial's face,
That steals from day to day,
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Moments and months, and years
away;

This shadow, which, in every clime,
Since light and motion first began,
Hath held its course sublime;
What is it? mortal man!

It is the scythe of Time.
Not only o'er the dial's face,
This silent phantom, day by day,
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Steals moments, months, and years
away;

From hoary rock and aged tree,
From proud Palmyra's mouldering
walls,

From Teneriffe, towering o'er the