IF WOMEN COULD BE FAIR.

FROM BYRD'S "SONGS AND SONNETS," 1588.

IF women could be fair and never fond,

Or that their beauty might continue still, I would not marvel though they made men bond, By service long to purchase their good-will; But when I see how frail these creatures are, I laugh that men forget themselves so far.

To mark what choice they make, and how they change,

How, leaving best, the worst they choose out still,

And how, like haggards, wild about they range,
Scorning the reason to follow after will;
Who would not shake such buzzards from the fist,
And let them fly, fair fools, what way they list?

Yet for our sport we fawn and flatter both,

To pass the time when nothing else can please, And train them on to yield, by subtle oath,

The sweet content that gives such humor ease; And then we say, when we their follies try, To play with fools, O, what a fool was I !

DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE

EYES.

FROM "THE forest."

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honoring thee As giving it a hope that there

It could not withered be; But thou thereon didst only breathe And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee!

PHILOSTRATUS (Greek). Trans lation of BEN JONSON.

I MADE a posie, while the day ran by :
Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie
My life within this band.
But time did beckon to the flowers, and they
By noon most cunningly did steal away,
And withered in my hand.

My hand was next to them, and then my heart;
I took, without more thinking, in good part
Time's gentle admonition;
Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey,
Making my minde to smell my fatall day,

Yet sugring the suspicion.

Farewell, dear flowers, sweetly your time ye spent,
Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornament,
And after death for cures.
I follow straight without complaints or grief,
Since, if my scent be good, I care not, if
It be as short as yours.

LIFE.

GEORGE HERBERT.

My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
But, ere the shades of evening close,
Is scattered on the ground, to die!
Yet on the rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,

"BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN."

O, DEEM not they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; The Power who pities man has shown A blessing for the eyes that weep.

The light of smiles shall fill again

The lids that overflow with tears; And weary hours of woe and pain Are promises of happier years.

There is a day of sunny rest

For every dark and troubled night ; And grief may bide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.

And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier,
Sheddest the bitter drops like rain,
Hope that a brighter, happier sphere
Will give him to thy arms again.

Nor let the good man's trust depart, Though life its common gifts deny, Though with a pierced and bleeding heart, And spurned of men, he goes to die.

For God hath marked each sorrowing day
And numbered every secret tear,
And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay
For all his children suffer here.

WILLIAM CULI FN BRYANT,

LIFE.

Tuis life, sae far 's I understand,

Is a enchanted fairy land,

Where Pleasure is the magic wand,

That, wielded right,

Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, Dance by fu' light.

The magic wand then let us wield; For, ance that five-an'-forty 's speeled, See crazy, weary, joyless eild,

Wi' wrinkled face,

Comes hostin', hirplin', owre the field,
Wi' creepin' pace.

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin',
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin';
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin',
An' social noise;

An' fareweel dear, deluding woman!
The joy of joys!

O Life! how pleasant in thy morning,
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning !
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning,
We frisk away,

Like school-boys, at the expected warning,
To joy and play.

We wander there, we wander here,
We eye the rose upon the brier,
Unmindful that the thorn is near,
Amang the leaves :

And though the puny wound appear,
Short while it grieves.

THE RIVER OF LIFE.

THE more we live, more brief appear
Our life's succeeding stages;
A day to childhood seems a year,
And years like passing ages.

The gladsome current of our youth,
Ere passion yet disorders,
Steals lingering like a river smooth
Along its grassy borders.

But as the careworn cheek grows wan,
And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,
Ye stars, that measure life to man,

Why seem your courses quicker?

When joys have lost their bloom and breath,
And life itself is vapid,

Why, as we near the Falls of Death,
Feel we its tide more rapid?

It may be strange, — yet who would change
Time's course to slower speeding,
When one by one our friends have gone
And left our bosoms bleeding?

Heaven gives our years of fading strength
Indemnifying fleetness;

And those of youth, a seeming length,
Proportioned to their sweetness.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

A MEDITATION ON THE FRAILTY OF THIS LIFE.

O TRIFLING toys that toss the brains
While loathsome life doth last;

O wished wealth, O sugared joys,
O life when death is past!

Who loathes exchange of loss with gain?
Yet loathe we death as hell.

What woful wight would wish his woe?
Yet wish we here to dwell.

O Fancy frail, that feeds on earth,
And stays on slippery joys!
O noble mind, O happy man,

That can contemn such toys!

Such toys as neither perfect are,
And cannot long endure;
Our greatest skill, our sweetest joy,
Uncertain and unsure.

For life is short, and learning long,

All pleasure mixt with woe; Sickness and sleep steal time unseen, And joys do come and go.

BUSY, CURIOUS, THIRSTY FLY.

[Last verse added by Rev. J. Plumtree.]
BUSY, curious, thirsty fly,
Drink with me, and drink as I ;
Freely welcome to my cup,
Couldst thou sip and sip it up.
Make the most of life you may;
Life is short, and wears away.

Both alike are mine and thine,
Hastening quick to their decline;
Thine's a summer, mine no more,
Though repeated to threescore.
Threescore summers, when they're gone,
Will appear as short as one.

Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails,
And swear'st to ease her;

There's none can want where thou supply'st:
There's none can give where thou deny'st.
Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou
ly'st.

What well-advised ear regards

What earth can say ?
Thy words are gold, but thy rewards
Are painted clay :

Thy cunning can but pack the cards,
Thou canst not play :

Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st;
If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st:
Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world,
thou ly'st.