Plymouth.

OH! what know they of harbours
Who toss not on the sea?
They tell of fairer havens,

But none so fair there be

As Plymouth town, outstretching
Her quiet arms to me,

Her breast's broad welcome spreading
From Mewstone to Penlee.

And with this home-thought, darling, Come crowding thoughts of thee; Oh, what know they of harbours Who toss not on the sea?

Song in the Labour Movement.

THE Voice of labour soundeth shrill,

Το

Mere clamour of a tuneless throng,
you who barter at your will
The life that maketh song.
very

Oh! you whose sluggard hours are spent
The rule of Mammon to prolong,
What know ye of the stern intent

Of hosted labour marching strong?

When we have righted what is wrong,
Great singing shall your ears entreat
Meanwhile in movement there is song
And music in the pulse of feet.

Johnson and the Literary Club.

"No more behind thy scenes, David—'

"""Tis thought, sir, that the Circle should embrace

"Embrace! No, no, friend Boswell; say include. The deed itself is shameful, and the word

Suggesteth rather thy obscene amours

Than the momentous business of the Club."

[Exit Boswell.

Johnson (solus): There's time and place for all

things; Samuel, you

Have been befooled by women, like the rest;

For one there was, by David introduced,

Who fairly trapped thee, caught thee napping, eh?
She reckoned on my blindness, knowing well
That contact worketh wonders, and entwined
Herself in such wise round me that I felt
In no small measure altered, lifted, moved,
And severed as by magic from the past.
No longer shunned but courted, as the lord
Of Love and his dominions, I surveyed
My vast possessions proudly, and observed
(Some motion drawing m' attention to the maid)
"Methinks a simple damsel so disposed,
Unless awakened rudely, will retain

The hold she hath, so is't ordained that I
Tho' not a little weary, undertake

To be protector to her-sweet in sleep

And far from being 'frighted as she seemed.

So held I what was given to my breast

That I might feel its movement; hers was pressed Close and still closer till in truth I knew

Not light from darkness. Samuel, Samuel, you Have been befooled by women, like the rest.

Once bit, twice shy, jam satis, look you now,
Plain figures, being mortal, may embrace;
But as old Euclid has defined them-No.
Talk we of "Circles," Boswell? say include.

Wordsworth's Seat, Rydal.

EIGHT steps there are beneath a poet's throne :
A lover's heart, a meditative will,
Ambitious perseverance, obstinate skill
That knows how painfully the jewel shone,
A prophet's sight, a soul's communion
With humblest wayside things by dale and hill,
An eye that tears can on a sudden fill,
And lips that smile before the tears are gone.
But mounting up thy rocky poet's seat
With hesitation as before a king's,

These other twain beneath thy throne I found:
Knowledge of peace that human goodness brings—
Of life most earnest, solemn, joyful, sweet;

I cried, "Thy throne is sure, thy kingdom sound."