"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "And life must be hastening away;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon deathNow tell me the reason, I pray?"

"I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied; "Let the cause thy attention engage; In the days of my youth I remember'd my God, And He hath not forgotten my age.”

SOUTHEY.

Lycidas.

YET Once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year :
Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear

Compels me to disturb your season due,
For Lycidas is dead; dead ere his prime
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to sing and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

For we were nurs'd upon the self-same hill,
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill
Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd,

Under the opening eyelids of the morn,
We drove afield; and both together heard
What time the gray fly winds her sultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the star that rose at evening bright

T'wards heav'n's descent had slop'd his westering wheel.
But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone,-
Now thou art gone, and never must return!
Thee, shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves,
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes mourn;

The willows and the hazel-copses green
Shall now no more be seen

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose,

Or taint-worm to the weanling-herds that graze,
Or frost to flow'rs, that their gay wardrobe wear
When first the white-thorn blows,-

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.

But weep not, woeful shepherds, weep no more
For Lycidas, your sorrow is not dead,

Sunk though he be beneath the wat❜ry floor.
So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed,

And yet anon repairs his drooping head,

And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:

For Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high

Through the dear might of Him who walk'd the waves,

Where other groves and other streams along,

With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,

And hears the unexpressive nuptial song
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love:
There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops and sweet societies
That sing, and singing in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.

MILTON.

Hymn to Gratitude.

WHEN all thy mercies, O my God,
My rising soul surveys,
Transported with the view, I'm lost
In wonder, love, and praise!

O, how shall words with equal warmth
The gratitude declare,

That glows within my ravish'd heart?
But thou canst read it there.

Thy providence my life sustain'd,
And all my wants redress'd,
When in the silent womb I lay,
Or hung upon the breast.

To all my weak complaints and cries
Thy mercy lent an ear,

Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learn'd

To form themselves in prayer.

Unnumber'd comforts to my soul
Thy tender care bestow'd,

Before my infant heart conceiv'd

From whence those comforts flow'd.

When in the slippery paths of youth
With heedless steps I ran,
Thine arm, unseen, convey'd me safe,

And led me up to man.

Through hidden dangers, toils, and deaths, It gently clear'd my way;

And through the pleasing snares of vice, More to be fear'd than they.

When worn with sickness, oft hast Thou
With health renew'd my face;
And when in sin and sorrow sunk,
Reviv'd my soul with grace.

Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss
Has made my cup run o'er,
And in a kind and faithful friend
Has doubled all my store.

Ten thousand thousand precious gifts
My daily thanks employ;

Nor is the least a cheerful heart

That tastes those gifts with joy.

Through ev'ry period of my life
Thy goodness I'll pursue;

And after death, in distant worlds,
The glorious theme renew.

When nature fails, and day and night
Divide thy works no more,
My ever-grateful heart, O Lord,
Thy mercy shall adore.

Through all eternity to Thee
A joyful song I'll raise :
But O, eternity's too short
To utter all thy praise.

ADDISON.

The Paper Kite.

ONCE on a time a paper kite
Was mounted to a wond'rous height;
Where, giddy with its elevation,
It thus express'd self-admiration :-
"See how yon crowds of gazing people
Admire my flight above the steeple!
How would they wonder if they knew
All that a kite like me can do!
Were I but free, I'd take a flight,

And pierce the clouds beyond their sight;
But O, like a poor pris'ner bound,
My string confines me near the ground.

C