Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!

DIRGE.

Goldsmith.

The summer winds sing lullaby

O'er Mary's little grave;

And the summer flowers spring tenderly,
O'er her their buds to wave;

For oh her life was short and sweet,
As the flowers that blossom at her feet.

A little while the beauteous gem
Bloomed on the parent's breast;
Ah! then it withered on the stem,
And sought a deeper rest,

And we laid o'er her gentle frame the sod,
But we know that her spirit is gone to God.

The birds she loved so well to hear

Her parting requiem sing;

And her memory lives in the silent tear,
Which the heart to the eye will bring;

For her kind little feelings will ne'er be forgot
By those who have mourned-her early lot

Roscoe.

THE WAY TO MAKE OLD AGE COMFORTABLE.

You are old, father William,' the young man cried,

• The few locks that are left you are grey;

You are hale, father William, a hearty old man, • Now tell me the reason, I pray?"

In the days of my youth,' father William replied,
I remembered that youth would fly fast;

And abused not my health and my vigour at first,
That I never might need them at last.'

You are old, father William,' the young man cried,
And pleasures with youth pass away;

And yet you lament not the days that are gone, • Now tell me the reason, I pray?'

In the days of my youth,' father William replied, "I remembered that youth would not last,

I thought on the future whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past.'

• You are old, father William,' the young man cried, And life must be hastening away;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death, • Now 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 remembered my God, And He hath not forgotten my age.'

THE FRAILTY OF BEAUTY.

Southey.

I must tune up my harp's broken string,
For the fair has commanded the strain;
But yet such a theme will I sing,
That I think she'll not ask me again ;

For I'll tell her-youth's blossom is blown, And that beauty, the flower, must fade : (And sure, if a lady can frown,

She'll frown at the words I have said.)

The smiles of the rose-bud how fleet!
They come and as quickly they fly:
The violet, how modest and sweet:
Yet the spring sees it open and die.

How snow white the lily appears,

Yet the life of a lily's a day;
And the snow that it equals, in tears
To-morrow must vanish away.

Ah, Beauty! of all things on earth
How many thy charms most desire!
Yet beauty with youth has its birth,
And beauty with youth must expire.

Ah, fair ones! so sad is the tale;
That my song in my sorrow I steep;
And where I intended to rail,

I must lay down my harp, and must weep.

But Virtue indignantly seized
The harp as it fell from
my
Serene was her look, though displeased,

hand;

As she uttered her awful command.

Thy tears and thy pity employ

For the thoughtless, the giddy, the vain,

But those who my blessings enjoy
Thy tears and thy pity disdain.

For beauty alone ne'er bestowed
Such a charm as Religion has lent ;
And the cheek of a belle never glowed
With a smile like the smile of content.

'Time's hand, and the pestilence rage,

No hue, no complexion can brave; For beauty must yield to old age,

But I will not yield to the grave.'

Rev. C. Wolfe.