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THE QUESTIONER.
I ASK not for his lineage,

I ask not for his name:
If manliness be in his heart

He noble birth may claim.
I care not though of world's wealth

But slender be his part,
If “ Yes” you answer when I ask

Hath he a true man's heart?"
I ask not from what land he came,

Nor where his youth was nursed:
If

pure the stream, it matters not The spot from whence it burst.

The palace or the hovel,

Where first his life began,
I seek not of, but answer this

“ Is he an honest man?”
Nay, blush not now: what matters it

Where first he drew his breath?
A manger was the cradle bed

Of Him of Nazareth !
Be nought, be any, everything,

I care not what you be
If “Yes” you answer when I ask
Art thou pure, true, and free?"

--Nicoll.

THE PRIMROSE.
THE milk-white blossoms of the thorn

Are waving o'er the pool,
Moved by the wind that breathes along

So sweetly and so cool.
The hawthorn clusters bloom above,

The primrose hides below,
And on the lonely passer-by

A modest glance doth throw.
The humble primrose' bonnie face,

I meet it everywhere:
Where other flowers disdain to blow,

It comes and nestles there.
Like God's own light, on every place

In glory it doth fall,
And where its dwelling-place is made

It straightway hallows all.
Where'er the green-winged linnet sings,

A primrose bloometh lone,
And love it wins, deep love from all

Who gaze its sweetness on.
On field-paths narrow, and in woods,

We meet thee near and far,
Till thou becomest prized and loved

As things familiar are.

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We have been sad together,

We have wept with bitter tears
O'er the grass-grown graves where slumbered

The hopes of early years.
The voices which are silent there

Would bid thee clear thy brow:
We have been sad together-
Oh! what shall part us now?

-Hon. Mrs. Norton. ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE III.

131

ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE III.
I SAW him last on that terrace proud,

Walking in health and gladness,
Begirt with his Court; and in all the crowd,

Not a single look of sadness.
Bright was the sun, the leaves were green,

Blithely the birds were singing,
The cymbals replied to the tambourine,

And the bells were merrily ringing.
I have stood with the crowd beside his bier,

When not a word was spoken-
When every eye was dim with a tear,

And the silence by sobs was broken.
I have heard the earth on his coffin pour

To the muffled drums' deep rolling,
While the minute-gun, with its solemn roar,

Drowned the death-bell's tolling.
The time since he walked in his glory thus

To the grave till I saw him carried,
Was an age of the mightiest change to us,

But to him a night unvaried.
A daughter beloved, a queen, a son,

And a son's sole child have perished ;
And sad was each heart, save only the one

By which they were fondest cherished.
For his eyes were sealed, and his mind was dark,

And he sat in his age's lateness,
Like a vision throned as a solemn mark

Of the frailty of human greatness.
His silver beard o'er a bosom spread

Unvexed by life's commotion,
Like a yearly lengthening snowdrift shed

On the calm of a frozen ocean.
Still o'er him oblivion's waters lay,

Though the stream of life kept flowing ; When they spoke of our king, 't was but to say The old man's strength was going.

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