Is there, for honest poverty
Wha hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that:

Our toils obscure, and a' that, The rank is but the guinea stamp,

The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hodden gray, and a' that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,

A man's a man for a' that.

Then Money came; and, chinking still

"What tune is this, poor man?" said he;

66 I heard in music you had skill." But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came brave Glory puffing by, In silks, that whistled "Who but he?"

He scarce allowed me half an eye. But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came quick Wit and Conversa

tion;

And he would needs a comfort be, And, to be short, make an oration. But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Yet, when the hour of thy design To answer these fine things shall come,

Speak not at large; say I am thine; And then they have their answer home.

HERBERT.

ETON COLLEGE.

YE distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the watery glade, Where grateful Science still adores Her Henry's holy shade;

And ye, that from the stately brow 'Of Windsor's heights the expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead, survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver-winding way:

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!
Ah, fields beloved in vain!
Where once my careless childhood
strayed,

A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales that from ye blow
A momentary bliss bestow,

As waving fresh their gladsome
wing,

My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.

Say, father Thames, for thou hast

seen

Full many a sprightly race Disporting on thy margent green, The paths of pleasure trace; Who foremost now delight to cleave, With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which inthrall? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball?

While some on earnest business bent,

Their murmuring labors ply 'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint

To sweeten liberty:

Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare de-

scry:

Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast:
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer, of vigor born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly the approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom,

The little victims play;

No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day:
Yet see, how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful

train!

Ah, show them where in ambush stand,

To seize their prey, the murth❜rous band!

Ah, tell them, they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear, The vultures of the mind, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that skulks behind; Or pining Love shall waste their youth,

Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth,

And now again fresh leaves do bud for me,

Yet let me feel that still the spirit sings

Its quiet song, coming from heaven

free.

S. G. W.

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.

SHAKSPEARE: As you like it.

THE SEVEN AGES.

SUN-DIAL.

THE shadow on the dial's face,
That steals from day to day,
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Moments and months, and years
away;

This shadow, which, in every clime,
Since light and motion first began,
Hath held its course sublime;
What is it? mortal man!

It is the scythe of Time.
Not only o'er the dial's face,
This silent phantom, day by day,
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Steals moments, months, and years
away;

From hoary rock and aged tree, From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls,

From Teneriffe, towering o'er the