I, of my "Spenser" quite bereft, last winter sore was shaken;
Of" Lamb" I've but a quarter left, nor could I save my
66 Bacon ;"
And then I saw my
Crabbe," at last, like Hamlet, backward go;
And, as the tide was ebbing fast, of course I lost my "Rowe."

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My "Mallet" served to knock me down, which makes me thus a talker·
And once, when I was out of town, my "Johnson" proved a "Walker."
While studying, o'er the fire, one day, my
"Hobbes” amidst the smoke,

They bore my "Colman" clean away, and carried off my "Coke."

They picked my "Locke," to me far more than "Bramah's-patent" worth, And now my losses I deplore, without a "Home" on earth.

If once a book you let them lift, another they conceal;

For though I caught them stealing "Swift," as swiftly went my "Steelc."

"Hope" is not now upon my shelf, where late he stood elated; But what is strange, my "Pope" himself is excommunicated. My little "Suckling" in the grave is sunk to swell the ravage;

And what was Crusoe's fate to save, 'twas mine to lose-a "Savage."
Even "Glover's" works I cannot put my frozen hands upon;

Though ever since I lost my "Foote," my "Bunyan” has been gone;
My "Hoyle" with "Cotton" went oppressed; my "Taylor," too, must fail ;
To save my
"Goldsmith" from arrest, in vain I offered " Bayle."

I" Prior" sought, but could not see the "Hood" so late in front;

And when I turned to hunt for "Lee," O! where was my "Leigh Hunt?”
I tried to laugh, old care to tickle, yet could not "Tickle" touch;
And then, alack! I missed my " Mickle," and surely Mickle's much.

'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed, my sorrows to excuse,

To think I cannot read my "Reid," nor even use my "Hughes;"
My classics would not quiet lie, a thing so fondly hoped ;
Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry, my "Livy" has eloped.

My life is ebbing fast away; I suffer from these shocks,

"Butler" fly;

And though I fixed a lock on "Gray," there's gray upon my locks;
I'm far from "Young," am growing pale, I see my
And when they ask about my ail, 'tis "Burton," I reply.

They still have made me slight returns, and thus my griefs divide;
For O! they cured me of my "Burns," and eased my "Akenside."
But all I think I shall not say, nor let my anger burn;
For, as they never found me "Gay," they have not left me

"Sterne."

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SONNETS FOR ADVANCED PUPILS.

1.-ON THE SONNET.-Wordsworth.

Scorn not the sonnet; critic, you have frown'd,
Mindless of its just honours: with this key
Shakespeare unlock'd his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
Camoens soothed with it an exile's grief;
The sonnet glitter'd a gay myrtle-leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crown'd
His visionary brow; a glowworm lamp,
It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd from fairy-land

To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp

Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand

The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew
Soul-animating strains,-alas, too few!

2. REMEMBRANCE.-Shakespeare.

When to the sessions of sweet, silent Thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, and with old woes new-wail my dear time's waste; then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, for precious friends hid in death's dateless night; and weep afresh love's long-since-cancelled woe, and moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight. Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, and heavily from woe to woe tell-o'er the sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan, which I new pay as if not paid before: but if the while I think on thee, dear friend! all losses are restored, and sorrows end.

3.-FORGETFULNESS IN DEATH.-Shakespeare.

No longer mourn for me, when I am dead, than you shall hear the surly sullen bell give warning to the world—that I am fled from this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell: nay, if you read this line, remember not the hand that writ it; for I love you so, that I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot-if thinking on me then should make you woe. O if, I

say, you look upon this verse (when I perhaps compounded am with clay), do not so much as my poor name rehearse, but let your love even with my life decay;-lest the wise world should look into your moan, and mock you with me after I am gone.

4.-SOUL AND BODY.-Shakespeare.

Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth, fool'd by those rebel powers that thee array; why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth, painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost, having so short a lease, dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end? Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, and let that pine to aggravate thy store; buy terms divine, in selling hours of dross; within be fed, without be rich no more so shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men; and Death once dead, there's no more dying then.

5.-LOVE.-Shakespeare.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixèd mark that looks on tempests, and is never shaken; it is the star to every wandering bark, whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out, ev'n to the edge of doom. If this be error, and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

:

6. TO HIS LOVE.-Shakespeare.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer's lease hath all too short a date; sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimm'd; and every fair from fair sometime declines, by chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd: but thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade, when in eternal lines to time thou growest. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, so long lives this—and this gives life to thee!

7.-ON ARRIVING AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE.-Milton.

How soon hath time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career, but my

late spring no bud or blossom showeth. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth, that I to manhood am arrived so near; and inward ripeness doth much less appear, that some more timely-happy spirits endueth. Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow, it shall be still in strictest measure even to that same lot, however mean or high, towards which time leads me, and the will of heaven; all is, if I have grace to use it so,-as ever in my Great Task-Master's eye.

8.-ON HIS BLINDNESS.--Milton.

When I consider how my light is spent, ere half my days, in this dark world and wide; and that one talent (which is death to hide) lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent to serve therewith my Maker, and present my true account, lest He returning chide ;—"Doth God exact daylabour, light denied?" I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent that murmur, soon replies:- God doth not need either man's work, or His own gifts: who best bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed, and post o'er land and ocean without rest;— they also serve who only stand and wait."

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9.-ON MRS. CATHERINE THOMPSON.-Milton.

When faith and love, which parted from thee never, had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God, meekly thou didst resign this earthly load of death, called life; which us from life doth sever. Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour, stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod; but, as Faith pointed with her golden rod, followed thee up to joy and bliss for ever. Love led them on, and Faith, who knew them best, thy handmaids, clad them o'er with purple beams and azure wings, that up they flew so drest, and spake the truth of thee on glorious themes before the Judge ;-who thenceforth bid thee rest, and drink thy fill of pure immortal

streams.

10.-TO CYRIAC SKINNER.-Milton.

Cyriac, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear to outward view of blemish or of spot,-bereft of light, their seeing have forgot; nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, or man, or woman. Yet I argue not against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot of heart or hope; but still bear up, and steer right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? the conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied in liberty's defence,-my noble task; of which all Europe talks from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask, content, though blind, had I no better guide.

11.-TRUE BEAUTY.-Spenser.

Men call you fair, and you do credit it, for that yourself you daily such do see; but the true fair—that is, the gentle wit and virtuous mind— is much more praised of me. For, all the rest, however fair it be, shall turn to nought, and lose that glorious hue; but only that is permanent and free from frail corruption that doth flesh ensue.... That is true beauty that doth argue you to be divine, and born of heavenly seed; deriv'd from that fair Spirit, from whom all true and perfect beauty did at first proceed. He only fair, and what He fair hath made;—all other fair, like flowers untimely, fade.

12.-SAINT JOHN THE BAPTIST.-Drummond.

The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King, girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild; among that savage brood the woods forth bring, which he more harmless found than man, and mild; his food was locusts, and what there doth spring, with honey that from virgin-hives distill'd; parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing made him appear long since from earth exiled. There burst he forth: "All ye whose hopes rely on God, with me amidst these deserts mourn; repent, repent, and from old errors turn!”—Who listen'd to his voice? obey'd his cry? Only the echoes, which he made relent, rung from their flinty caves, "Repent! Repent!"

13.-THE APPROACH OF HOPE.-Bowles.

As one who, long by wasting sickness worn, weary has watched the lingering night, and heard, heartless, the carol of the matin bird salute his lonely porch,-now first at morn goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed; he the green slope and level meadow views, delightful bathed in slow ascending dews; or marks the clouds that, o'er the mountain's head, in varying forms, fantastic wander white; or turns his ear to every random song, heard the green river's winding marge along, the while each sense is steeped in still delight-with such delight, o'er all my heart, I feel, sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal.

14.-TO TIME.-Bowles.

O Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence-lulling to sad repose the weary sense-the faint pang stealest unperceived away; on thee I rest my only hope at last; and think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear that flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, I may look back on every sorrow past, and meet life's peaceful evening with a smile;-as some lone bird, at day's departing hour, sings