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 parlor 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 gave 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.

GEORGE Crabbe.

TOMMY'S DEAD.

You may give over plough, boys,
You may take the gear to the stead,
All the sweat o' your brow, boys,
Will never get beer and bread.
The seed's waste, I know, boys,

There's not a blade will grow, boys,

"T is cropped out, I trow, boys, And Tommy 's dead.

Send the colt to fair, boys,

He's going blind, as I said,

My old eyes can't bear, boys,

To see him in the shed;

The cow's dry and spare, boys,
She's neither here nor there, boys,

I doubt she's badly bred;

Stop the mill to-morn, boys,
There'll be no more corn, boys,
Neither white nor red;

There's no sign of grass, boys,

You may sell the goat and the ass, boys,
The land's not what it was, boys,

And the beasts must be fed :
You may turn Peg away, boys,
You may pay off old Ned,
We've had a dull day, boys,
And Tommy 's dead.

Move my chair on the floor, boys,

Let me turn my head:

She's standing there in the door, boys, Your sister Winifred!

Take her away from me, boys,

Your sister Winifred!

Move me round in my place, boys,

Let me turn my head,

Take her away from me, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed,
The bones of her thin face, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed!
I don't know how it be, boys,
When all's done and said,
But I see her looking at me, boys,
Wherever I turn my head;
Out of the big oak tree, boys,
Out of the garden-bed,

And the lily as pale as she, boys,
And the rose that used to be red.

There's something not right, boys,
But I think it's not in my head,
I've kept my precious sight, boys, -
The Lord be hallowed!
Outside and in

The ground is cold to my tread,
The hills are wizen and thin,
The sky is shrivelled and shred,
The hedges down by the loan
I can count them bone by bone,
The leaves are open and spread,
But I see the teeth of the land,
And hands like a dead man's hand,
And the eyes of a dead man's head.

There's nothing but cinders and sand,

The rat and the mouse have fed,

And the summer 's empty and cold; Over valley and wold

Wherever I turn my head

There's a mildew and a mould,

The sun's going out overhead,

And I'm very old,

And Tommy's dead.

What am I staying for, boys,
You're all born and bred,
'Tis fifty years and more, boys,
Since wife and I were wed,
And she's gone before, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

She was always sweet, boys,
Upon his curly head,

She knew she'd never see 't, boys,

And she stole off to bed;

I've been sitting up alone, boys, For he 'd come home, he said, But it's time I was gone, boys, For Tommy's dead.

Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

BYRON'S LATEST VERSES.

[Missolonghi, January 23, 1824. On this day I completed my thirty-sixth year.].

"T is time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it has ceased to move;

Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love.

My days are in the yellow leaf,
The flowers and fruits of love are gone,
The worm, the canker, and the grief,
Are mine alone.

The fire that in my bosom preys
Is like to some volcanic isle,
No torch is kindled at its blaze,

A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,

But wear the chain.

But 't is not here, - it is not here,

OLD.

By the wayside, on a mossy stone,
Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;
Oft I marked him sitting there alone,
All the landscape, like a page, perusing;
Poor, unknown,

By the wayside, on a mossy stone.

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat;
Coat as ancient as the form 't was folding;
Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat;
Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding;
There he sat !

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat.

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there,

No one sympathizing, no one heeding, None to love him for his thin gray hair, And the furrows all so mutely pleading Age and care:

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there.

It was summer, and we went to school, Dapper country lads and little maidens ; Taught the motto of the "Dunce's Stool," Its grave import still my fancy ladens, "Here's a fool!"

It was summer, and we went to school.

Where glory seals the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

Oftentimes the tears unbidden started
Would not stay

When the stranger seemed to mark our play.

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell,

O, to me her name was always Heaven! She besought him all his grief to tell, (I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) Isabel!

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell.

"Angel," said, he sadly, "I am old;

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told." Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow, Down it rolled !

“Angel,” said he sadly, “I am old.

"I have tottered here to look once more On the pleasant scene where I delighted In the careless, happy days of yore,

Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core :

I have tottered here to look once more.

"All the picture now to me how dear! E'en this gray old rock where I am seated,