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ON MYSELF.

He bowed amongst them like a tree,
And thus made way for liberty,

Swift to the breach his comrades fly ;
"Make way for liberty!" they cry,
And through the Austrian phalanx dart,
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart;
While, instantaneous as his fall,

Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all;

An earthquake could not overthrow
A city with a surer blow

Thus Switzerland again was free;
Thus death made way for liberty!

Cowley.

THIS only grant me, that my means may lie
Too low for envy, for contempt too high.
Some honor I would have,

ON MYSELF.

Not from great deeds, but good alone;
The unknown are better than ill known;
Rumor can ope the grave.

Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends
Not on the number, but the choice, of friends.

Books should, not business, entertain the light,
And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night.
My house a cottage more
Than palace; and should fitting be
For all my use, no luxury.

My garden painted o'er

With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures yield, Horace might envy in his Sabine field.

Thus would I double my life's fading space;
For he that runs it well twice runs his race.
And in this true delight,

These unbought sports, this happy state,
I would not fear, nor wish, my fate;
But boldly say, each night,
To-morrow let my sun his beams display,
Or in clouds hide them; I have lived to-day.

VOICE of the summer wind,
Joy of the summer plain,
Life of the summer hours,
Carol clearly, bound along.
No Tithon* thou, as poets feign,
(Shame fall 'em, they are deaf and blind,)
But an insect lithe and strong,
Bowing the seeded summer flowers.
Prove their falsehood and their quarrel,
Vaulting on thy airy feet,

Clap thy shielded sides and carol,
Carol clearly, chirrup sweet.

Thou art a mailed warrior, in youth and strength

complete.

Among the many beautiful fables of the ancient Greeks was this one. The beauty of Tithonus, son of a king of Troy, gained for him the affection of one of the goddesses. He begged her, as a favor, to make him immortal, and his request was granted. But, as he had forgotten to ask to retain the vigor and beauty of youth, he soon became infirm and decrepid; and, as life became insupportable to him, he begged the goddess to remove him from the world. As he could not die, she changed him into a grasshopper.

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THE GRASSHOPPER.

Armed cap-a-pie,
Full fair to see;
Unknowing fear,
Undreading loss.
A gallant cavalier,

"Sans peur et sans reproche,” *
In sunlight and in shadow,
The Bayard of the meadow.
I would dwell with thee,
Merry grasshopper,
Thou art so glad and free,

And as light as air;

Thou hast no sorrow or tears,
Thou hast no compt of years,
No withered immortality,
But a short youth, sunny and free.
Carol clearly, bound along,
Soon thy joy is over.
A summer of loud song,

And slumbers in the clover,
What hast thou to do with evil
In thine hour of love and revel,

In thy heat of summer pride
Pushing the thick roots aside
Of the singing, flowered grasses,
That brush thee with their silken tresses?
What hast thou to do with evil,
Shooting, singing, ever springing

In and out the emerald glooms;
Ever leaping, ever singing,
Lighting on the golden blooms?

* Without fear and without reproach; an epithet applied to Bay ard, a French knight distinguished for his courage and his integrity. He died in 1524.

A GRECIAN ANECDOTE. — Milnes.

How Sparta thirsted after orient gold,
And bartered faith for wealth she dared not use,
Is as severe a tale as e'er was told

The pride of man to conquer and confuse.

Therefore forget not what that nature was,

That once availed the base desire to foil, When sought the Ionian Aristagoras

To mingle Sparta in his distant broil.

How thick the perils of that far emprise,
How dim the vista cunningly displayed,
The king discerned, with clear and practised eyes,
And bade the stranger court Athenian aid.

To people as to prince, appeal was vain,

Vain the dark menace,vain the shadowy gibe,But the wise envoy would not bend again

His homeward steps till failed the wonted bribe.

A suppliant at the regal hearth he stood,

Nor ever thought that proffer to withhold Because about them, in her careless mood,

Played the king's child,—a girl some nine years old.

Ten-twenty forty talents rose the bait

Strange feeling glistened in those infant eyes, That gazed attentive on the grave debate,

And seemed to search its meaning in surprise.

Yet fifty now had well secured the prey,

Had not a little hand tight clasped his arm, And a quick spirit uttered, "Come away,

Father, that man is there to do you harm."

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Not unaccepted such pure omen came;

That gentle voice the present God revealed, And back the Ionian chief returned in shame, Checked by the virtue of that simple shield.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS, Bryant.

THE melancholy days have come, the saddest of the

year,

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead;

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?

Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.

The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain

Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again,