HUNTING SONG.-Scott,

WAKEN, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day,
All the jolly chase is here,
With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear;
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling;
Merrily, merrily mingle they,

Waken, lords and ladies gay.”
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are streaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming ;
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green ;
Now we come to chant our lay,

Waken, lords and ladies gay.”
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away ;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot and tall of size;
We can show the marks he made
When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed.
You shall see him brought to bay ;
“Waken, lords and ladies gay.”
Louder, louder chant the lay,

Waken, lords and ladies gay !"
Tell them, youth, and mirth, and glee
Run a course as well as we;
Time, stern huntsman ! who can baulk ?
Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.

WE ARE SEVEN.— Wordsworth.

A SIMPLE child That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death ?

I met a little cottage girl :

She was eight years old, she said ; Her hair was thick with many a curl

That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,

And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair ;

Her beauty made me glad.

“Sisters and brothers, little maid,

How many may you be ?”. “How many? Seven in all," she said,

And wondering looked at me. “ And where are they? I pray you tell.”

She answered, “Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.
“Two of us in the churchyard lie,

My sister and my brother;
And, in the churchyard cottage, I

Dwell near them with my mother.” “You say that two at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven !—I pray you tell,

Sweet maid, how this may be ?"

seen,"

This did the little maid reply,

“ Seven boys and girls are we ; Two of us in the churchyard lie,

Beneath the churchyard tree." “You run about, my little maid,

Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,

Then ye are only five."
“Their graves are green, they may be

The little maid replied, “Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,

And they are side by side.
"My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem ;
And there upon the ground I sit-

I sit and sing to them.
" And often after sunset, sir,

When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper

there.
“ The first that died was little Jane ;

In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain ;

And then she went away.
“So in the churchyard she was laid ;

And all the summer dry,
Together round her grave we played,

My brother John and I. “And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

“How many are you, then,” said I,

“ If they two are in Heaven ?” The little maiden did reply,

“Oh, master! we are seven.” But they are dead; those two are dead !

Their spirits are in Heaven !” 'Twas throwing words away : for still The little maid would have her will,

And said, “ Nay, we are seven !"

A PSALM OF LIFE.--Longfellow.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream !
For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal ; Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow

Finds us farther than to-day. Art is long, and time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle !

Be a hero in the strife !

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !

Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Act,-act in the living Present !

Heart within, and God o'erhead !

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labour and to wait,

CRANMER'S PREDICTION OF THE FUTURE

GREATNESS OF THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH.-Shakspeare.

LET me speak, sir,
For heaven now bids me, and the words I utter
Let none think flattery, for they'll find them truth :
This royal infant, (heaven still move about her !)
Though in her cradle, yet now promises
Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings,
Which time shall bring to ripeness: she shall be
(But few now living can behold that goodness)
A pattern to all princes living with her,
And all that shall succeed : Sheba was never
More covetous of wisdom, and fair virtue,