THE APPROACH OF AGE.

(From "Tales of the Hall.")

Six years had passed, and forty ere the six,
When Time began to play his usual tricks ;
The locks once comely in a virgin's sight,
Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching white;
The blood, once fervid, now to cool began,
And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man.
I rode or walked as I was wont before,
But now the bounding spirit was no more;
A moderate pace would now my body heat;
A walk of moderate length distress my feet.
I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime,
But said, "The view is poor; we need not climb. '
At a friend's mansion I began to dread
The cold neat parlour and the gay glazed bed:
At home I felt a more decided taste,
And must have all things in my order placed.
I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less-
My dinner more; I learned to play at chess.
I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute
Was disappointed that I did not shoot.
My morning walks I now could bear to lose,
And blessed the shower that give me not to choose
In fact, I felt a languor stealing on;
The active arm, the agile hand, were gone;
Small daily actions into habits grew,

And new dislike to forms and fashions new.

I loved my trees in order to dispose;

I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose ;
Told the same story oft-in short, began to prose.

THE CRAZED MAIDEN.

(From "Tales of the Hall.")

LET me not have this gloomy view
About my room, about my bed ;
But morning roses, wet with dew,
To cool my burning brow instead ;
As flowers that once in Eden grew,
Let them their fragrant spirits shed,

And every day their sweets renew,
Till I, a fading flower, am dead.
O let the herbs I loved to rear

Give to my sense their perfumed breath!
Let them be placed about my bier,
And grace the gloomy house of death.
I'll have my grave beneath a hill,
Where only Lucy's self shall know,
Where runs the pure pellucid rill
Upon its gravelly bed below:
There violets on the borders blow,
And insects their soft light display,
Till, as the morning sunbeams glow,
The cold phosphoric fires decay.
That is the grave to Lucy shown,
The soil a pure and silver sand;
The green cold moss above it grown,
Unplucked of all but maiden hand.
In virgin earth, till then unturned,

There let my maiden form be laid ;
Nor let my changed clay be spurned,

Nor for new guest that bed be made.
There will the lark, the lamb, in sport,
In air, on earth, securely play:
And Lucy to my grave resort,

As innocent, but not so gay.
I will not have the churchyard ground
With bones all black and ugly grown,
To press my shivering body round,
Or on my wasted limbs be thrown.
With ribs and skulls I will not sleep,
In clammy beds of cold blue clay,
Through which the ringed earth-worms creep,
And on the shrouded bosom prey.
I will not have the bell proclaim
When those sad marriage rites begin,
And boys, without regard or shame,
Press the vile mouldering masses in.

FROM SIR EUSTACE GREY' "PILGRIM, burthen'd with thy sin, Come the way to Zion's gate,

There, till Mercy let thee in,

Knock and weep and watch and wait.
Knock! He knows the sinner's cry!
Weep!-He loves the mourner's tears:
Watch!-for saving grace is nigh:
Wait,-till heavenly light appears.

Hark! it is the Bridegroom's voice:
"Welcome, pilgrim, to thy rest;
Now within the gate rejoice,

Safe and seal'd and bought and blest!
Safe-from all the lures of vice,
Seal'd-by signs the chosen know,
Bought by love and life the price,
Blest the mighty debt to owe.

Holy Pilgrim! what for thee

In a world like this remain?

From thy guarded breast shall flee
Fear and shame, and doubt and pain.
Fear-the hope of heaven shall fly,
Shame from glory's view retire,
Doubt-in certain rapture die,
Pain-in endless bliss expire."

William Gifford.

Born 1756

Died 1826.

BETTER known as a critic and prose writer than a poet, was born at Ashburton, in Devonshire, in 1756, of poor parentage. His parents died when he was very young, but Gifford picked up an education, and became an author in 1794. His "Baviad and Mæviad," poetical satires, introduced him into public notice; and as a political and literary writer he acted a prominent part during his after career. Of the higher poetry there are very few pieces by Gifford; but his poems show considerable simplicity and beauty. He died in London, on 31st December 1826.

THE GRAVE OF ANNA.

I WISH I was where Anna lies,
For I am sick of lingering here;
And every hour affection cries,

Go and partake her humble bier.

I wish I could! For when she died,
I lost my all; and life has proved
Since that sad hour a dreary void;
A waste unlovely and unloved.

But who, when I am turned to clay,
Shall duly to her grave repair,
And pluck the ragged moss away,

And weeds that have " no business there?"

And who with pious hand shall bring
The flowers she cherished, snowdrops cold,
And violets that unheeded spring,

To scatter o'er her hallowed mould?

And who, while memory loves to dwell
Upon her name for ever dear,
Shall feel his heart with passion swell,
And pour the bitter, bitter tear!

I did it; and would fate allow,

Should visit still, should still deplore--But health and strength have left me now, And I, alas! can weep no more.

Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain,
The last I offer at thy shrine;

Thy grave must then undecked remain,
And all thy memory fade with mine.

And can thy soft persuasive look,

Thy voice that might with music vie,

Thy air that every gazer took,
Thy matchless eloquence of eye;

Thy spirits frolicsome as good,

Thy courage by no ills dismayed,
Thy patience by no wrongs subdued,
Thy gay good-humour, can they fade?

Perhaps but sorrow dims my eye;

Cold turf, which I no more must view, Dear name, which I no more must sigh, A long, a last, a sad adieu!

William Sotheby.

Born 1757.

Died 1833.

CHIEFLY known as a translator from the Latin, Greek, and German poets He also wrote some original poems, but they are little known.

STAFFA.

STAFFA, I Scaled thy summit hoar,

I passed beneath thy arch gigantic,
Whose pillared cavern swells the roar,
When thunders on thy rocky shore
The roll of the Atlantic.

That hour the wind forgot to rave,

The surge forgot its motion,
And every pillar in thy cave
Slept in its shadow on the wave,
Unrippled by the ocean.

Then the past age before me came,
When 'mid the lightning's sweep,

Thy isle with its basaltic frame,
And every column wreathed with flame,
Burst from the boiling deep.

When 'mid Iona's wrecks meanwhile
O'er sculptured graves I trod,

Where Time had strewn each mouldering aisle
O'er saints and kings that reared the pile,

I hailed the eternal God:

Yet, Staffa, more I felt his presence in thy cave
Than where Iona's cross rose o'er the western wave.

Robert Burns.

Born 1759

Died 1796

ROBERT BURNS was born on the 25th of January 1759, in a small cottage near the town of Ayr. His father, originally a small farmer, was reduced to humble circumstances, and worked as a common garder er; he was a man of stern and unflinching integrity, and gave his son a good example of religion and virtue. At an early age Burns was sent to school, and his teacher seems to have taken a special delight in imparting to him even more than the usual smattering of knowledge; Burns had, besides, another teacher who busily prepared him for future greatness,-an old woman of the neighbourhood, who was a complete storehouse of old ballads and legendary tales, and who so filled the young mind of the poet with stories