JULY.

Then came hot July, boiling like to fire,
That all his garments he did cast away;
Upon a Lion raging yet with ire

He boldly rode, and made him to obey
(It was the beast that whilom did foray
The Nemean forest, till the Amphitrionide
Him slew, and with his hide did him array) :
Behind his back a scythe, and by his side,
Under his belt, he bore a sickle circling wide.

AUGUST.

The eighth was August, being rich arrayed
In garment all of gold, down to the ground:
Yet rode he not, but led a lovely maid
Forth by the lily hand, the which was crowned
With ears of corn, and full her hand was found.
That was the righteous Virgin, which of old
Lived here on earth, and plenty made abound;
But after wrong was loved and justice sold,

She left the unrighteous world, and was to heaven extolled.

SEPTEMBER.

Next him September marchèd eke on foot,
Yet was he hoary, laden with the spoil
Of harvest riches, which he made his boot,
And him enriched with bounty of the soil.
In his one hand, as fit for harvest toil,
He held a knife-hook; and in the other hand
A pair of Weights, with which he did assoil
Both more or less, where it in doubt did stand,
And equal gave to each, as justice duly scanned.

OCTOBER.

Then came October, full of merry glee;
For yet his noule was totty of the must,
Which he was treading in the wine-fat's see,
And of the joyous oyle, whose gentle gust

Made him so frolic and so full of lust:
Upon a dreadful Scorpion he did ride,
The same which by Diana's doom unjust

Slew great Orion; and eke by his side

He had his ploughing share and coulter ready tyde.

NOVEMBER.

Next was November; he full grosse and fat
As fed with lard, and that right well might seeme;
For he had been a fatting hogs of late,

That yet his browes with sweat did reck and steem.

And yet the season was full sharp and breem;
In planting eke he took no small delight:
Whereon he rode, not easy was to deeme;
For it a dreadful Centaure was in sight,

The seed of Saturne and fair Nais, Chiron hight.

DECEMBER.

And after him came next the chill December;
Yet he through merry feasting which he made
And great bonfires, did not the cold remember;
His Saviour's birth his mind so much did glad.
Upon a shaggy bearded Goat he rode.
The same wherewith Dan Jove in tender years,
They say, was nourisht by th' Idean mayd;
And in his hand a broad deep bowle he beares,
Of which he freely drinks an health to all his peeres.
Spenser.

THE POET HAFIZ.

HAFIZ (which signifies one who knows the Koran and the Traditions by heart), or to give his full name, Mohammed Shems-ed-Din Hafiz, was born at Shiraz, a port on the Caspian Sea, about the beginning of the fourteenth century, and early in life showed a great love for the pursuit of learning. He was appointed teacher in the royal family of the reigning house of Muzaffer, and even a college was founded for him. Numerous tempting offers of place and power were held out to Hafiz, but the poet was content to remain in the self-chosen humble condition of a dervish. Hafiz was married, and lived to a good old age. His death took place in the year 1388. His tomb is situated about two miles north-east of Shiraz, and even at the present daynearly five hundred years from the time of his death-the splendid tomb of the gifted Persian is resorted to by flocks of pious pilgrims from all parts of Persia. Hafiz may be termed the Persian Anacreon, for his poetry is chiefly in praise of love and wine, flowers and birds, and other forms of sensuous beauty. He did not, however, confine himself to the composition of love chansons and songs in praise of wine; he wrote several works on jurisprudence and theology, and some of his poems abound in profound reflections on the mutability of human life, and withering sarcasms on the cant and hypocrisy of the professional devotees of his day. Such was the bitter rancour which his plain-speaking engendered in the breasts of the priests, that they refused to read the usual prayers over his remains. The name Shems-ed-Din signifies Sun of Religion; another of his cognomens was Lishan-al-Ghaid-the Voice of Mystery; and his verses were so mellifluous that he was frequently termed Tschegerleb, or Sugar-lip.

WOMAN.

[These lines, by Moore, were published for the first time, it is believed,

in the Athenæum, Nov. 1872.]

WHEN life looks lone and dreary,

What light can dispel the gloom?
When Time's swift wing is weary,
What charm can refresh his plume?
'Tis Woman, whose sweetness beameth
On all that we feel or see:

And if man of heaven e'er dreameth,
'Tis when he thinks purely of thee,
Oh, Woman!

THE WISE MAN AND HIS FOOLISH WIFE.

AN old wise man, who had married twice and lived very happily with both wives, was over-persuaded by his friends to marry again. For his part, he thought it a mistake; but as his friends spoke of a beautiful young girl, who, they said, had been nurtured and taught by a very careful and clever mother, he yielded to their advice, and married her.

Soon after their marriage the young girl went to her mother, saying she was sure her husband did not love her. So her mother told her what to do to prove her husband's love.

The old man had in his garden a favourite tree, under which he would sit every day; and for that reason he took great pains to trim and to train it. His wife cut it down, had it sawn into logs, and in the evening made an immense fire with them. The old man sat in silence before this fire with his wife, until all the logs were burnt to ashes. Then he asked why she had cut down this particular tree to make a fire.

She answered, "As you liked it best, I judged it would warm you most."

But, instead of losing his temper, he merely said, "I am no warmer from this tree than I should have been from any other tree."

66

Then the girl went to her mother, who asked, "Was he cross ?" No," said the daughter. "Then you ought to be satisfied." But still the girl begged for another way to prove her husband's love. After awhile her mother told her one.

The old man had a dog of which he was very fond, always feeding and tending it with his own hand. So one night as the lady sat by her lord, arrayed in her richest robe of samite, and a pelisse of costly fur, she took the dog into her lap, and killed it with a knife from off the table; and all her clothing was bedabbled with the blood, and quite spoiled.

The wise man was silent for a little space. marked, “ I think it is time to go to bed.”

Yet still his wife was not content, but went

Then he quietly re

again to her mother,

saying her husband was not cross, and asking for another way to prove his love; and this her mother told her. In a few days the wise man made a feast, and invited his friends. Spread upon the table were his choicest cups and flagons, filled with ale and mead, and the meats were served upon his costliest dishes. His wife carried at her girdle a bunch of keys, and having twisted these among the fringes of the table-cloth, she rose up suddenly, just before the feast began, as though to reach something from behind, and dragged the whole banquet to the floor.

Not a frown appeared upon the wise man's countenance. He merely said a grace, and helped to pick up the things.

But next morning, when the lady arose, she found a fire in her room, and a table covered with porringers and towels, and beside it a great chair, against which stood a barber talking to the wise man.

"Madam," said her husband in his kindest voice," after two happy marriages, I know too well the native gentleness of womankind to attribute these strange freaks of yours to the fault of female nature. They arise, in my judgment, from three measures full of bad blood, which must be taken from your veins in order to make you complaisant like other women."

In spite of tears and cries, her husband placed her in the chair and bared her arms, while the barber bled her of three porringers full of blood. When she got well enough to go out again, she went and told her mother. But her mother said it served her right. And the wise man told her if such freaks broke out again, he never could lay the blame to her charming disposition, but to a porringer full of bad blood, of which he would promise to see her relieved for every freak. But there were no more porringers full of blood, since there were no more freaks; and ever afterwards the wise man had a happy and contented wife.-Beeton's Christmas Annual, 1872.

PADDY O'RAFTER.

PADDY, in want of a dinner one day,
Credit all gone, and no money to pay,
Stole from the priest a fat pullet, they say,

And went to confession just afther :

"Your riv'rence," says Paddy, "I stole this fat hen."

"What, what!" says the priest; "at your ould tricks again?

"Faith, you'd rather be staaling, than saying Amen,

Paddy O'Rafther!"

"Sure you wouldn't be angry," says Pat, "if you knew
That the best of intintions I had in my view;

For I stole it, to make it a present to you,

And you can absolve me afther."

"Do you think," says the priest, "I'd partake of your theft?
Of your seven small senses you must be bereft—

You're the biggest blackguard that I know, right or left,

Paddy O'Rafther!"

Then what shall I do with the pullet," says Pat,
"If your riv'rence won't take it? By this and by that,
I don't know no more than a dog or a cat

What your riv'rence would have me be afther."
"Why, then," says his riv'rence, "you sin-blinded owl,
Give back to the man that you stole from his fowl,
For if you do not, 'twill be worse for your sowl,

Paddy O'Rafther."

Says Paddy," I asked him to take it, 'tis thrue
As this minnit I'm talking, your riv'rence, to you;
But he wouldn't resaive it-so what can I do?"

Says Paddy, nigh choking with laughter.
"By my throth," says the priest, "but the case is absthruse;
If he won't take his hen, why the man is a goose.
'Tis not the first time my advice was no use,

Paddy O'Rafther!"
"But for sake of your sowl, I would sthrongly advise
To some one in want you would give your supplies :
Some widow, or orphan, with tears in their eyes;

And then you may come to me afther."
So Paddy went off to the brisk Widow Hoy,
And the pullet, between them, was eaten with joy ;
And says she, “'Pon my word, you're the cleverest boy,

Paddy O'Rafther!"

Then Paddy went back to the priest the next day,
And told him the fowl he had given away

To a poor lonely widow, in want and dismay,
The loss of her spouse weeping afther.

"Well, now," says the priest, "I'll absolve you, my lad,
For repintantly making the best of the bad,
In feeding the hungry, and cheering the sad,

Paddy O'Rafther!"

Samuel Lover.

LITERARY FAME.

I WAS out of spirits-read the papers-thought what fame was, on reading, in a case of murder, that "Mr. Wych, grocer, at Tunbridge, sold some bacon, flour, cheese, and, it is believed, some plums, to some gipsy woman accused." He had on his counter (I quote faithfully) a book, the "Life of Pamela," which he was tearing for wastepaper, etc. etc. In the cheese was found, etc., and a leaf of " Pamela" wrapped round the bacon. What would Richardson, the vainest and luckiest of living authors (ie. while alive), he who, with Aaron Hill, used to prophesy and chuckle over the presumed fall of Fielding (the prose Homer of human nature), and of Pope (the most beautiful of poets),-what would he have said could he have traced his pages from