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The Fairy Queen's Chariot.

ER chariot ready strait is made,
Each thing therein is fitting laid,
That she by nothing might be stay'd,
For nought must be her letting;
Four nimble gnats the horses were,
Their harnesses of gossamere,

Fly Cranion, her charioteer,

Upon the coach-box getting.

Her chariot of a snail's fine shell,

Which for the colours did excel:
The fair Queen Mab becoming well,
So lively was the limning;
The seat the soft wool of the bee,
The cover, gallantly to see,
The wing of a pyed butterflee,

I trow, 'twas simple trimming.

The wheels composed of crickets' bones,
And daintily made for the nonce,
For fear of rattling on the stones,

With thistle-down they shod it;

For all her maidens much did fear,

If Oberon had chanced to hear

That Mab his queen should have been there,

He would not have abode it.

DRAYTON.

[MICHAEL DRAYTON, a voluminous writer of the Elizabethan era, is far less known than he deserves to be, perhaps because he fell into the dangerous error of writing too much, and thus producing chronicles where sketches would have been preferred. Thus his principal work, the "Poly-olbion," contains above twenty-eight thousand verses-a formidable array, such as might daunt the most persevering reader of verse. In the "Baron's Wars," one of his best poems, there are many noble descriptions. The description of "Queen Mab's Chariot," given above, is taken from his "Nymphidia: the Court of Fairy." The lines might have been spoken by Mercutio himself. Drayton's genius did not result in placing him in independent circumstances. After a long life of toil and discomfort, he expired, in 1631 at the age of sixty-eight years.]

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60

THE YOUNG HERDSMAN,

All melted into him; they swallowed up
His animal being; in them did he live,
And by them did he live; they were his life.
In such access of mind, in such high hour
Of visitation from the living God,

Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired.
No thanks he breathed; he proffered no request ;
Rapt into still communion, that transcends
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise,
His mind was a thanksgiving to the Power
That made him ;-It was blessedness and love!

A herdsman, on the lonely mountain tops,
Such intercourse was his; and in this sort
Was his existence oftentimes possessed.

O, then, how beautiful, how bright appeared
The written promise! He had early learned
To reverence the Volume, which displays
The mysteries, the life that cannot die;
But in the mountains did he feel his faith;
There did he see the writing;-all things there
Breathed immortality, revolving life,
And greatness still revolving;-infinite!
There littleness was not ;-the least of things
Seemed infinite; and there his spirit shaped
Her prospects; nor did he believe-he saw.
What wonder if his being thus became
Sublime and comprehensive! low desires,

Low thoughts had there no place; yet was his heart
Lowly; for he was meek in gratitude,

Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind,

And whence they flowed; and from them he acquired

Wisdom, which works through patience; thence he learned,

THE MOTHER AND CHILD.

In many a calmer hour of sober thought,
To look on Nature with an humble heart,
Self-questioned where he did not understand,
And with a reverential eye of love.

WORDSWORTH.

The Mother and Child.

ER by her smile how soon the stranger knows ;
How soon by this the glad discovery shows!
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy,
What answering looks of sympathy and joy!
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard,
And ever, ever to her lap he flies,

When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise.
Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her flung,
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue,)
As with soft accents round her neck he clings,
And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings,
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart,
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart,
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove,
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!

But soon a nobler task demands her care;
Apart she joins his little hands in prayer,
Telling of Him who sees in secret there.
And now the volume on her knee has caught
His wand'ring eye-now many a written thought

61

62

THE MOTHER AND CHILD.

Never to die, with many a lisping sweet
His moving murm'ring lips endeavour to repeat.

Released, he chases the bright butterfly;
Oh, he would follow-follow through the sky!
Climbs the gaunt mastiff slumbering in his chain,
And chides, and buffets, clinging by the mane!
Then runs, and kneeling by the fountain-side,
Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide,
A dangerous voyage! or, if now he can,
If now he wears the habit of a man,

Flings off the coat so long his pride and pleasure,
And, like a miser digging for his treasure,
His tiny spade in his own garden plies,
And in green letters sees his name arise!
Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight,

She looks, and looks, and still with new delight.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

[The name of SAMUEL ROGERS, the banker-poet, recalls several successive generations of literary celebrities. Born in 1762, he entered the field of letters while the great "Doctor" still towered on his throne as the Grand Cham of literature, and he survived till 1855, almost seventy years after the production of his first collection of poems, which were published in 1786, the year in which Robert Burns first appeared as an author. Rogers is not a very prolific writer; and his poems are rather remarkable for grace and polish of diction, than for innate power. His best work, the "Italy," was published in 1822. Rogers will long be remembered as a kind patron of his less fortunate compeers in literature and art; his great wealth giving him opportunities of doing good, of which he availed himself in no stinted measure. Many have cause to remember him with gratitude.]

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