And eke my toothless chaps,
The gates of my right way,

That opes

and shuts as I do speak,

Do thus unto me say:

The white and hoarish hairs,

The messengers of age,

That show, like lines of true belief,
That this life doth assuage-

Bids thee lay hand, and feel
Them hanging on my chin,
The which do write two ages past,
The third now coming in.

Hang up, therefore, the bit

Of thy young wanton time; And thou that therein beaten art, The happiest life define.

Whereat I sighed and said,

Farewell my wonted joy,

Truss up thy pack and trudge from me,
To every little boy.

And tell them thus from me,
Their time most happy is,

If to their time they reason had,
To know the truth of this.

HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY.

Born, 1516. Beheaded, 1547.

THE GHOST.

A TRUE STORY.

WHEN I was a boy, in an old church-yard
A terrible ghost appear'd,

And oft looked over the church-yard gate,
With a grisly, grisly beard.

He had eyes as bright and as round as suns,
And a pale and haggard cheek,

And you saw he was thinking, thinking much,
But never a word did he speak―

Save once, when a drunken old man declar'd
The ghost his thin arm did stretch,
And smote him hard; and the old man heard
The ghost call out, "You wretch !"

And he staggered away, and from that same day
Did the drunken man repent;

But never again down Southernhay Lane
The frighten'd sinner went.

The ghost had his home behind an old tomb
'Neath nettles and brambles hid,

And there, I was told, he slept in the mould,
And his cover was a coffin-lid.

A hospital close by the church-yard stood,
And the nurses were known to declare,
That whenever the dying in tortures were crying
He put out his ear to hear.

And once I remember, in dreary December,
At night, as a truant pass'd by,

He saw the old ghost looking white as a post,
And flashing out frowns from his eye.

Such at last was the fright, that at evening and night
Not a soul pass'd through Southernhay Lane;
For no one could doubt that the ghost was about—
Denial was almost profane.

When I was a boy, 'twas my tremulous joy
At noon through the church-yard to pass,
And there I saw nought but a hairy old goat
That quietly browzed on the grass.

A stranger at last walk'd through Southernhay Lane,
And the ghost as accustom'd appear'd ;

So he stared the old grisly one full in the face,
And valiantly grappled his beard.

"And what makes you here, my old fellow," he said, "With a beard that's so haggard and gray?" And the ghost with solemnity shook his grave head, And opened his lips, and cried, "Ba!"

Since then all my fears and my fancies grew cool,
And I learnt from the story I quote,

Had the old man been sober, the young boy at school, They had seen, not a ghost, but a goat.

DR. BOWRING.

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.

"WILL you walk into my parlour?" said the spider to the fly,

"Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did

spy.

The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,

And I have many pretty things to show, when you get there."

"Oh no, no!" said the little fly, "to ask me is in

vain;

For who goes up your winding stair comes never down again.'

"I am sure you must be weary, with soaring up so high;

Will you rest upon my pretty bed?" said the spider

to the fly,

'My bed has silken curtains, the sheets are fine and thin;

And if you please to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in."

"Oh no, no!" said the little fly, "I've often heard it said,

They never wake again, who go to rest upon your bed."

'I'm sure you must be hungry," said the spider to the fly,

"Will you look into my pantry? my pantry is close

by;

There are dishes without number, and delicacies nice, And if you please to look within, perhaps you'll take a slice."

“Oh no, no!" said the little fly, "indeed that cannot

be;

I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not want to see."

"Sweet creature!" said the spider, "you are witty, and you're wise;

How handsome are your gauzy wings! how brilliant are your eyes!

You do not know how fine your shape, how slender and how fair,

How beautiful your shining wings with colours bright and rare!

I've got a looking glass within, upon a little shelf; And if you please to take a look, you may behold yourself."