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For them we wear these trusty arms,

And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton,
For ever, from our shore.

BRYANT,

THE WIFE.

How much the wife is dearer than the bride !"

Lord Lyttleton.

SHE stood beside him, in the spring-tide hour
When Hymen lit with smiles the nuptial bower,
A downcast, trembling girl ;- whose pulse was stirrid
By the least murmur, like a frightend bird;
Timid, and shrinking from each stranger's gaze,
And blushing when she heard the voice of praise ;
She clung to him as some superior thing,
And soar'd aloft upon his stronger wing!
Now mark the change :—when storm-clouds gather

fast,
And man, creation's lord, before the blast
Shrinks like a parched scroll or withering leaf,
And turns revolting from the face of grief-
When, in despair, his scarce uplifted eye
Sees foes who linger, fancied friends who fly-
Woman steps forth, and boldly braves the shock,
Firm to his interests as the granite rock;
She stems the wave, unshrinking meets the storm,
And wears his guardian angel's earthly form!
And if she cannot check the tempest's course,
She points a shelter from its whelming force !
When envy's sneer would coldly blight his name,
And busy tongues are sporting with his fame,
Who solves each doubt-clears every mist away,
And makes him radiant in the face of day?
She who would peril fortune, fame, and life,
For man, the ingrate—THE DEVOTED WIFE.

MRS. C. B. WILSON.

THE MINSTREL. THERE lived in gothic days, as legends tell, A shepherd-swain, a man of low degree : Whose sires, perchance, in fairy-land might dwell, Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady. But he, I ween, was of the north countrie ; A nation famed for song, and beauty's charms; Ze yet ; innocent, though free ;

Patient of toil; serene, amidst alarms;
Inflexible in faith ; invincible in arms.

The shepherd-swain of whom I mention made,
On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock;
The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never sway'd;
An honest heart was almost all his stock;
His drink the living water from the rock:
The milky dams supplied his board, and lent
Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock;

And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent, Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er

they went From labour health, from health contentment

springs, Contentment opes the source of every joy: He envied not, he never thought of, kings; Nor from those appetites sustain'd annoy, That chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy: Nor Fate his calm and humble hopes beguiled; He mourn'd no recreant friend, nor mistress coy

For on his vows the blameless Phæbe smiled,
And her alone he loved, and loved her from a child.

No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast,
Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife ;
Each season look'd delightful as it past,
To the fond husband and the faithful wife:
Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd-life

They never roam'd; secure beneath the storm
Which in ambition's lofty land is rife,

Where peace and love are canker'd by the worm Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform.

The wight, whose tales these artless lines unfold,
Was all the offspring of this humble pair:
His birth no oracle or seer foretold :
No prodigy appear'd in earth or air,
Nor aught that might a strange event declare.
You guess each circumstance of Edwin's birth;
The parent's transport, and the parent's care;

The gossip's prayer for wealth, and wit, and worth; And one long summer-day of indolence and mirth.

And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy ;
Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye:
Dainties he heeded not, nor gaude nor toy,
Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy.
Silent, when glad; affectionate though shy ;
And now his look was most demurely sad,
And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why;

The neighbours stared and sigh’d, yet blest the lado Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believed

him mad. But why should I his childish feats display? Concourse, and noise, and toil, he ever fed ; Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray Of squabbling imps, but to the forest sped, Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head : Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd stream To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led,

There would he wander wild, till Phæbus' beam, Shot from the western cliff, released the weary team

Th' exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed,
To him nor vanity nor joy could bring :
His heart, from cruel sport estranged, would blood
To work the woe of any living thing,
By trap or net; by arrow or by sling ;

These he detested, those he scorn'd to wield; He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king, Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field ; And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield;

Lo! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, roves Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine; And sees, on high, amid th' encircling groves, From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine : While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join, And Echo swells the chorus to the skies. Would Edwin this majestic scene resign For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies ? Ah! no: he better knows great Nature's charms to

prize. And oft he traced the uplands, to survey, When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn, The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray, And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn ; Far to the west the long long vale withdrawn, Where twilight loves to linger for awhile; And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn,

A villager abroad at early toil.But lo! the sun appears! and heaven, earth, ocean

smile. And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb, When all in mist the world below was lost: What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime, Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast, And view th' enormous waste of vapour tost In billows, lengthening to th' horizon round, Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now em

boss'd! And hear the sound of mirth and song rebound, Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar pro

found. In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene:

In darkness, and in storm, he found delight:
Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene
The southern sun diffused his dazzling sheen,
E'en sad vicissitude amused his soul :
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,

And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to control.

BEATTIE

CARDINAL WOLSEY'S SPEECH TO CROMWELL.

a

Nay then, farewell. I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness ; And from that full meridian of my glory, I haste now to my setting : I shall fall Like a bright exhalation in the evening, And no man see me more. So farewell to the little good you bear me. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness was a ripening,-nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, These many summers in a sea of glory ; But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new open'd: 0, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours !
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

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