THE PRIDE OF WORTH.

Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
And dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,

Our toil's obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea stamp;
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden-grey, and a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man, for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that:

The honest man, tho' ne'er sae poor,
Is King o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that:

For a' that, and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that,
The man, of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

A king can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith, he maunna fa' that!

For a' that, and a' that,

Their dignities, and a' that,

The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,

That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that;

For a' that, and a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that;

That man to man, the warld o'er,

Shall brothers be for a' that.

GOLD.

R. Burns.

GOLD! Gold! Gold! Gold!

Bright and yellow, hard and cold,
Molten, graven, hammer'd and roll'd;
Heavy to get and light to hold;
Hoarded, barter'd, bought, and sold,
Stolen, borrow'd, squander'd, doled;

Spurn'd by the young, but hugg'd by the old
To the very verge of the churchyard mould;
Price of many a crime untold;

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!

Good or bad a thousand-fold!

How widely its agencies vary—

To save-to ruin-to curse-to bless-
As even its minted coins express,

Now stamp'd with the image of Good Queen Bess,
And now of a Bloody Mary.

T. Hood.

THE WORLDLINESS OF TO-DAY.

THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn,

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea,

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

W. Wordsworth.

198

THE LATEST DECALOGUE.

THE LATEST DECALOGUE.

THOU shalt have one God only; who
Would be at the expense of two?
No graven images may be
Worshipped-except the currency.
Swear not at all-for, for thy curse
Thine enemy is none the worse.

At church on Sunday to attend

Will serve to keep the world thy friend.
Honour thy parents-that is, all

From whom advancement may befall.

Thou shalt not kill-but need'st not strive

Officiously to keep alive.

Do not adultery commit;

Advantage rarely comes of it.

Thou shalt not steal-an empty feat

When 'tis so lucrative to cheat.
Bear not false witness; let the lie
Have time on its own wings to fly.
Thou shalt not covet; but tradition
Approves all forms of competition.

Arthur Hugh Clough.

SAINT BRANDAN.

SAINT Brandan sails the northern main;
The brotherhoods of saints are glad.
He greets them once, he sails again.
So late!-such storms!-The Saint is mad!

He heard across the howling seas
Chime convent bells on wintry nights,
He saw on spray-swept Hebrides
Twinkle the monastery lights;

But north, still north, Saint Brandan steer'd;
And now no bells, no convents more!
The hurtling Polar lights are near'd,
The sea without a human shore.

At last (it was the Christmas night,
Stars shone after a day of storm)—
He sees float past an iceberg white,
And on it-Christ!-a living form!

That furtive mien, that scowling eye,
Of hair that red and tufted fell-
It is-Oh, where shall Brandan fly?--
The traitor Judas, out of hell!