THE TOY OF THE GIANT'S CHILD.

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Again it fell and swung below, but again it quickly mounted, Till up and down, now fast, now slow, nine brave attempts

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were counted.

Sure,” cried the king, "that foolish thing will strive no more to climb,

When it toils so hard to reach and cling, and tumbles every time."

But up the insect went once more, ah me, 'tis an anxious minute,

He's only a foot from his cobweb door, oh, say will he lose or win it?

Steadily, steadily, inch by inch, higher and higher he got, And a bold little run at the very last pinch, put him into his native spot.

"Bravo, bravo!" the king cried out, "all honour to those who try

The spider up there defied despair, he conquered, and why shouldn't I?"

And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind, and gossips tell the tale,

That he tried once more as he tried before, and that time he did not fail.

Pay goodly heed, all you who read, and beware of saying, "I can't,"

'Tis a cowardly word, and apt to lead to Idleness, Folly, and Want.

Whenever you find your heart despair of doing some goodly thing,

Con over this strain, try bravely again, and remember the Spider and King.

VIII.-THE TOY OF THE GIANT'S CHILD.

(RICHARDSON-German Ballads).

BURG NIEDECK is a mountain in Alsace, high and strong, Where once a noble castle stood-the giants held it long;

Its very ruins now are lost, its site is waste and lone,
And if you seek for giants there, they are all dead and gone.
The giant's daughter once came forth the castle-gate before,
And played with all a child's delight, beside her father's
door;

Then sauntering down the precipice, the girl did gladly go,
To see, perchance, how matters went in the little world below.
With few and easy steps she passed the mountain and the
wood;

At length near Haslach, at the place were mankind dwelt, she stood;

And many a town and village fair, and many a field so green, Before her wondering eyes appeared, a strange and curious

scene.

And as she gazed, in wonder lost, on all the scene around,
She saw a peasant at her feet, a-tilling of the ground;
The little creature crawled about so slowly here and there,
And lighted by the morning sun, his plough shone bright and
fair.

Oh, pretty plaything!" cried the child, "I'll take thee home with me;"

Then with her infant hands she spread her kerchief on her

knee,

And cradling horse, and man, and plough, all gently on her

arm,

She bore them home with cautious steps, afraid to do them

harm!

She hastes with joyous steps and quick (we know what children are),

And spying soon her father out, she shouted from afar; "O father, dearest father, such a plaything I have found, I never saw so fair a one on our own mountain ground." Her father sat at table then, and drank his wine so mild, And smiling with a parent's smile, he asks the happy child, "What struggling creature hast thou brought so carefully to me?

Thou leap'st for very joy, my girl; come, open, let us see." She opens her kerchief carefully, and gladly you may deem, And shows her eager sire the plough, the peasant, and his team;

And when she'd placed before his sight, the new-found pretty

toy,

She clasped her hands, and screamed aloud, and cried for

very joy.

But her father looked quite seriously, and shaking slow his

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head,

What hast thou brought me home, my child?-this is no toy," he said;

Go, take it quickly back again, and put it down below; The peasant is no plaything, girl,-how could'st thou think him so?

So go, without a sigh or sob, and do my will," he said; "For know, without the peasant, girl, we none of us had

bread;

'Tis from the peasant's hardy stock the race of giants are ; The peasant is no plaything, child-no-God forbid he were !"

IX. THE LAST MAN.

(CAMPBELL.)

ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,

The sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume

Its immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep

That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of Time!

I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!

The sun's eye had a sickly glare,

The earth with age was wan,

The skeletons of nations were

Around that lonely man!

Some had expired in fight,-the brands1
Still rusted in their bony hands;

1 Brands, swords.

In plague and famine some! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb!

Yet prophet-like that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere1 leaves from the wood,
As if a storm passed by,

Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun,
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis mercy bids thee go;

For thou ter thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath the man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill,

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will;

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day,
For all those trophied arts
And triumphs, that beneath thee sprang,
Healed not a passion or a pang
Entailed on human hearts.

Go,-let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again.

Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe;

Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.

Sere, withered.

THE INQUIRY.

E'en I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,

Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death,-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast,

The eclipse of Nature spreads thy pall,
The majesty of Darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

The spirit shall return to Him,

That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine
By Him recalled to breath,

Who captive led captivity,
Who robbed the grave of victory,

And took the sting from death!
Go Sun, while mercy holds me up
On Nature's awful waste,
To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste;
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou sawest the last of Adam's race
On earth's sepulchral clod,

The darkening universe defy
To quench his immortality,
Or shake his trust in God!

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X-THE INQUIRY.
(CHARLES MACKAY.)

Charles Mackay, LL.D., is a native of Perth, but his boyhood was spent partly in England and partly in Belgium. He was for some years editor of the Glasgow Argus, and afterwards of the Illustrated London News. He was born in 1812.

TELL me, ye winged winds,

That round my pathway roar,