That shake the lofty monarch on his throne,

We lesser folks feel not.

Advancement often brings. To be secure,

Keen are the pains

James Hurdis.

Be humble; to be happy, be content.

BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES.

I

NEVER see a young hand hold

The starry bunch of white and gold,
But something warm and fresh will start
About the region of my heart ;-
My smile expires into a sigh;

I feel a struggling in my eye,

'Twixt humid drop and sparkling ray,
Till rolling tears have won their way;
For, soul and brain will travel back,
Through memory's chequer'd mazes,
To days, when I but trod life's track
For buttercups and daisies.

There seems a bright and fairy spell
About their very names to dwell;
And though old Time has mark'd my brow
With care and thought, I love them now.
Smile if you will, but some heart-strings

Are closest link'd to simplest things;

And these wild flowers will hold mine fast,
Till love and life and all be past ;

And then the only wish I have

Is, that the one who raises

The turf sod o'er me, plant my grave
With buttercups and daisies.

Eliza Cooke.

I

A FAIR AND HAPPY MILKMAID

S a country wench, that is so far from making herself beautiful by art, that one look of her is able to put all "face-physic" out of countenance. She knows a fair look is but a dumb orator to commend virtue, therefore minds it not. All her excellences stand in her so silently, as if they had stolen upon her without her knowledge. The lining of her apparel (which is herself) is far better than outsides of tissue; for though she be not arrayed in the spoil of the silkworm, she is decked in innocency, a far better wearing. She doth not, with lying long a-bed, spoil both her complexion and conditions: nature has taught her too immoderate sleep is rust to the soul; she rises therefore with chanticleer, her dame's cock, and at night makes the lamb her curfew. In milking a cow, and straining the teats through her fingers, it seems that so sweet a milkpress makes the milk the whiter or sweeter; for never came almond glove or aromatic ointment on her palm to taint it. The golden ears of corn fall and kiss her feet when she reaps them, as if they wished to be bound and led prisoners by the same hand that felled them. Her breath is her own, which scents all the year long of June, like a new-made haycock. She makes her hand hard with labour and her heart soft with pity; and when winter evenings fall early (sitting at her merry wheel) she sings a defiance to the giddy wheel of fortune. She doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seems ignorance will not suffer her to do ill, seeing her mind is to do well. She bestows her year's wages at next fair; and in choosing her garments, counts no bravery in the world like decency. The garden and beehive are all her physic and chirurgery, and she lives the longer for it. She dares go alone and infold sheep in the night, and fears no manner of ill, because she means none; yet, to say truth, she is never alone, for she is still accompanied with old songs, honest thoughts, and prayers, but short ones; yet they have their efficacy, in that they are not palled with ensuing idle cogitations. Lastly, her dreams are so chaste, that she dare tell them; only a Friday's dream is all her superstition-that she conceals for fear of anger. Thus lives she, and all her care is she may die in the spring-time, to have store of flowers stuck upon her winding-sheet.

Overbury.