Mary, I dare not call thee dear,

I've lost that right so long;
Yet once again I vex thine ear
With memory's idle song.
I felt a pride to name thy name,

But now that pride hath flown,
And burning blushes speak my shame,
That thus I love thee on.

How loath to part, how fond to meet,
Had we two used to be;

At sunset, with what eager feet

I hastened unto thee!

Scarce nine days passed us ere we met
In spring, nay, wintry weather;
Now nine years' suns have risen and set,
Nor found us once together.

Thy face was so familiar grown,
Thyself so often nigh,

A moment's memory when alone,
Would bring thee in mine eye;
But now my very dreams forget

That witching look to trace; Though there thy beauty lingers yet, It wears a stranger's face.

When last that gentle cheek I prest,
And heard thee feign adieu,

I little thought that seeming jest
Would prove a word so true!
A fate like this hath oft befell

Even loftier hopes than ours; Spring bids full many buds to swell, That ne'er can grow to flowers.

MY BROTHER'S GRAVE

REV. JOHN MOULTRIE.
Beneath the chancel's hallowed stone,
Exposed to every rustic tread,
To few save rustic mourners known,
My brother, is thy lowly bed.

Few words upon the rough stone graven,
Thy name, thy birth, thy youth declare;
Thy innocence, thy hopes of heaven,

In simplest phrase recorded there: No 'scutcheons shine, no banners wave, In mockery o'er my brother's grave.

The place is silent-rarely sound
Is heard those ancient walls around;
Nor mirthful voice of friends that meet,
Discoursing in the public street;
Nor hum of business dull and loud,
Nor murmur of the passing crowd,
Nor soldier's drum, nor trumpet's swell-
From neighboring fort or citadel-
No sound of human toil or strife

To death's lone dwelling speaks of life; Nor breaks the silence still and deep,

Where thou, beneath thy burial stone, Art laid in that unstartled sleep

The living eye hath never known.'
The lonely sexton's footstep falls
In dismal echoes on the walls,
As, slowly pacing through the aisle,
He sweeps the unholy dust away,
And cobwebs, which must not defile

Those windows on the Sabbath day; And, passing through the central nave, Treads lightly on my brother's grave.

But when the sweet-toned Sabbath chime, Pouring its music on the breeze, Proclaims the well-known holy time

Of prayer, and thanks, and bended knees; When rustic crowds devoutly meet,

And lips and hearts to God are given, And souls enjoy oblivion sweet

Of earthly ills, in thought of heaven; What voice of calm and solemn tone Is heard above thy burial stone? What form, in priestly meek array Beside the altar kneels to pray? What holy hands are lifted up To bless the sacramental cup? Full well I know that reverend form, And if a voice could reach the dead, Those tones would reach thee, though the worm,

My brother, makes thy heart his bed;

That sire, who thy existence gave,

Now stands beside thy lowly grave.

It is not long since thou were wont
Within these sacred walls to kneel;
This altar, that baptismal font,
These stones which now thy dust conceal,
The sweet tones of the Sabbath bell,
Were holiest objects to thy soul;
On these thy spirit loved to dwell,

Untainted by the world's control.
My brother, these were happy days,
When thou and I were children yet;
How fondly memory still surveys
Those scenes the heart can ne'er forget!

My soul was then, as thine is now,
Unstained by sin, unstung by pain;
Peace smiled on each unclouded brow-
Mine ne'er will be so calm again.
How blithely then we hailed the ray
Which ushered in the Sabbath day!
How lightly then our footsteps trod
Yon pathway to the house of God!
For souls, in which no dark offence
Hath sullied childhood's innocence,
Best meet the pure and hallowed shrine,
Which guiltier bosoms own divine.

And years have passed, and thou art now
Forgotten in thy silent tomb;
And cheerful is my mother's brow,

My father's eye has lost its gloom;
And years have passed, and death has laid
Another victim by thy side;

With thee he roams, an infant shade;

But not more pure than thou he died. Blest are ye both! your ashes rest Beside the spot ye loved the best; And that dear home, which saw your birth, O'erlooks you in your bed of earth. But who can tell what blissful shore Your angel spirit wanders o'er? And who can tell what raptures high Now bless your immortality?

TO CORINNA TO GO A-MAYING.

ROBERT HERRICK.

Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh quilted colours through the air;
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
The dew-bespangling herb and tree.

Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the east,
Above an hour since, yet you are not drest,

Nay, not so much as out of bed;
When all the birds have matins said,

And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation, to keep in,

When as a thousand virgins on this day,
Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May.

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen

To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,
And sweet as Flora. Take no care
For jewels for your gown or hair;
Fear not, the leaves will strew

Gems in abundance upon you:

Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.
Come, and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:
And Titan on the eastern hill
Retires himself, or else stands still

Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying;

Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a park
Made green, and trimmed with trees; see how
Devotion gives each house a bough,

Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this,
An ark, a tabernacle is,

Made up of white thorn neatly interwove;
As if here were those cooler shades of love.

Can such delights be in the street And open fields, and we not see't? Come, we'll abroad, and let's obey The proclamation made for May: And sin no more, as we have done, by staying, But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

There's not a budding boy or girl, this day,
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
A deal of youth, ere this, is come
Back, and with white thorn laden home.
Some have despatched their cakes and crearr.
Before that we have left to dream;

And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
Many a green gown has been given;
Many a kiss, both odd and even;
Many a glance, too, has been sent

From out the eye, love's firmament;

Many a jest told of the key's betraying

This night, and locks picked; yet we're not a-Maying

Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,
And take the harmless folly of the time.
We shall grow old apace, and die
Before we know our liberty.
Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun;
And as a vapour, or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne'er be found again;
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade;
All love, all liking, all delight

Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying

THE THREE WARNINGS.

MRS. THRALE.

The tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground; 'Twas therefore said by ancient sages,

That love of life increased with years So much, that in our latter stages, When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, The greatest love of life appears. This great affection to believe, Which all confess, but few perceive, If old assertions can't prevail,

Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay, On neighbour Dodson's wedding-day, Death called aside the jocund groom With him into another room,

And looking grave-' You must,' says he,
'Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.'
'With you! and quit my Susan's side?
With you!' the hapless husband cried;
"Young as I am,' 'tis monstrous hard!
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared:
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding day, you know.'

What more he urged I have not heard,
His reasons could not well be stronger;
So Death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.

Yet calling up a serious look,

His hour-glass trembled while he spoke-
'Neighbour,' he said, 'farewell! no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour:
And further, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you're summoned to the grave;
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,
And grant a kind reprieve;
In hopes you'll have no more to say;
But, when I call again this way,

Well pleased the world will leave.'
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
The willing muse shall tell:

He chaffered, then he bought and sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old
Nor thought of Death as near:

His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,
He passed his hours in peace

But while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road,
The beaten track content he trod,

Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sate,

The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him stood.

Half-killed with anger and surpris 'So soon returned!' old Dodson cries. 'So soon, d'ye call it?' Death replies: 'Surely, my friend, you're but in jest! Since I was here before

'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore.'

'So much the worse,' the clown rejoined{

To spare the aged would be kind: However, see your search be legal; And your authority-is't regal? Else you come on a fool's errand, With but a secretary's warrant.

Beside, you promised me Three Warnings, Which I have looked for nights and mornings But for that loss of time and ease,

I can recover damages.'

'I know,' cries Death, that at the best,'

I seldom am a welcome guest;

But don't be captious, friend, at least;
I little thought you'd still be able
To stump about your farm and stable.
Your years have run to a great length
I wish you joy, though, of your streng.

'Hold!' says the farmer; 'not so fast!

I have been lame these four years past.' 'And no great wonder,' Death replies, 'However, you still keep your eyes; And sure, to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends

'Perhaps,' says Dodson, 'so it mign But latterly I've lost my sight.'

This is a shocking tale, 'tis true; But still there's comfort left for you: Each strives your sadness to amuse;