Can yet the lease of my true love control,

Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.

The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,

And the sad augurs mock their own presage; Incertainties now crown themselves assured,

And peace proclaims olives of endless age.

Now with the drops of this most balmy time

My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes, Since spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,

While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes.

And thou in this shalt find thy monument,

When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

SHAKSPEARE.

THE SKEPTIC.

I CALLED on dreams and visions to disclose

That which is veiled from waking thought; conjured

Eternity, as men constrain a ghost To appear and answer. Then my

soul Turned inward, to examine of what stuff Time's fetters are composed; and life was put

To inquisition, long and profitless. By pain of heart, now checked, and now impelled, The Intellectual Power, through words and things,

Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way!

WORDSWORTH.

DESTINY.

THE Destiny, Minister General,
That executeth in the world o'er all
The purveiance that God hath seen
beforne;

So strong it is, that though the world had sworn

AN HONEST MAN'S FORTUNE.

You that can look through Heaven, and tell the stars, Observe their kind conjunctions, and their wars;

Find out new lights, and give them where you please,

To these men honors, pleasures, to those ease;

You that are God's surveyors, and can show

How far, and when, and why the wind doth blow;

Know all the charges of the dreadful thunder,

And when it will shoot over, or fall under:

Tell me, by all your art I conjure ye, Yes, and by truth, what shall become of me?

Find out my star, if each one, as you say,

Have his peculiar Angel, and his

way:

Observe my fate, next fall into your dreams,

Sweep clean your houses, and new line your schemes,

Then say your worst: or have I none at all?

Or is it burnt out lately? or did fall?

Or am I poor, not able, no full flame? My star, like me, unworthy of a name?

Is it, your art can only work on those

That deale with dangers, dignities, and cloathes?

With love, or new opinions? you all lye,

A fishwife hath a fate, and so have I,