Her, who begot this love in me before,

Taught'st me to make, as though I gave, when I do

but restore.

To him, for whom the passing-bell next tolls,

I give my physic-books; my written rolls

Of moral counsels I to Bedlam give:

My brazen medals unto them which live
In want of bread; to them which pass among
All foreigners, mine English tongue.
Thou, Love, by making me love one

Who thinks her friendship a fit portion

For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion.

Therefore I'll give no more, but I'll undo
The world by dying; because Love dies too.
Then all your beauties will be no more worth
Than gold in mines, where none doth draw it forth;
And all your graces no more use shall have,
Than a sun-dial in a grave.

Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me

Love her, who doth neglect both me and thee,

To invent and practise this one way to annihilate all

three.

DR. JOHN DONNE.

TO A SKELETON.

[The MS. of this poem, which appeared in 1820, was said to have been found in the Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons, in London, near a perfect human skeleton. It was published in the Morning Chronicle. The author was never discovered, although a reward of fifty guineas was offered.]

BEHOLD this ruin! "T was a skull
Once of ethereal spirit full.

This narrow cell was Life's retreat;

This space was Thought's mysterious seat.
What beauteous visions filled this spot!
What dreams of pleasure long forgot!
Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear
Has left one of record here.

Beneath this moldering canopy

Once shone the bright and busy eye:
But start not at the dismal void,—
If social love that eye employed,
If with no lawless fire it gleamed,

But through the dews of kindness beamed,
That eye shall be forever bright
When stars and sun are sunk in night.

Within this hollow cavern hung
The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue :
If Falsehood's honey it disdained,
And when it could not praise was chained;
If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke,

Yet gentle concord never broke,

This silent tongue shall plead for thee
When Time unveils Eternity!

Say, did these fingers delve the mine,
Or with the envied rubies shine?
To hew the rock, or wear a gem,
Can little now avail to them;

But if the page of Truth they sought,
Or comfort to the mourner brought,
These hands a richer meed shall claim
Than all that wait on Wealth and Fame.

Avails it whether bare or shod

These feet the paths of duty trod?
If from the bowers of Ease they fled,
To seek Affliction's humble shed;
If Grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned,
And home to Virtue's cot returned,-
These feet with angel wings shall vie,
And tread the palace of the sky!

ANONYMOUS.

THE TRUE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE.
Full oft I muse and hes in thocht.

THE passage of the speeding year,
And Fortune with her changing cheer,
Are ills on ilka hand confest;

We will not mourn for that, my dear,
But to be blythe we 'll count it best.

Fast as this warld fleets awa'
As fast her wheel does Fortune ca',
At no time tired or takin' rest:
What then? the limmer 's owre us a',

And to be blythe, I think it best.

Would pampered man consider weel,
Ere Fortune on him turn her wheel,
That earthly honour canna lest,
His fa' less painfu' he would feel:
But to be blythe I think it best.
Wha would wi' this dour warld strive
Will a' his days in dolour drive,
An', tho' he stood o' lands possest,
He couldna weel be said to live,
He's only tholin' at the best.

Wi' a' the treasure i' the earth
What profit is there, wantin' mirth?
Wi' a' the craps o' east an' west,
Without contentment there is dearth:
So to be blythe is surely best.
Let nane for tinsel droop an' dee,
The thing is but a vanitee;

And to the life that aye shall lest
Here's out the twinkling of an ee:
So to be blythe I think it best.
Had I, because my lot is puir,
Tint heart an' hope, an' harboured fear,
An' been wi' carried cares opprest,
I had been dead langsyne, I 'm sure;
But to be blythe I think it best.
However Fortune change an' veer,
Let's blythely live as lang's we 're here;
An' yet be ready and addrest
To pass content, without a tear,
Believin' a' thing for the best.

WILLIAM DUNBAR.
Modernized by HUGH HALIBURTON.

III.

MEMORY.

BLEST MEMORY.

FROM "THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY."

ETHEREAL power! who at the noon of night
Recall'st the far fled spirit of delight;

From whom that musing, melancholy mood
Which charms the wise, and elevates the good;
Blest Memory, hail! O grant the grateful muse,
Her pencil dipped in nature's living hues,
To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll,
And trace its airy precincts in the soul.

Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain,
Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain.
Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise!
Each stamps its image as the other flies!
Each, as the various avenues of sense
Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense,
Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art,
Control the latent fibres of the heart.
As studious Prospero's mysterious spell
Drew every subject spirit to his cell,
Each, at thy call, advances or retires,
As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires.