WHAT WOULD YE ASK?

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Live out your

little

span, on honor's scroll

Your names and glorious deeds emblazon high; All aims accomplish, reach the utmost goal

For which ye strove-then lay ye down and die !

'Tis the sure end. When in the funeral urn
Thy head, once proudly lifted, lieth low;
Long generations, thronging in their turn,
Will trample on thine ashes as they go.

The grave receiveth all. Within its breast
The peasant lies-the prince is at his side-
Long are their slumbers, silent is their rest,
And equal now is poverty and pride.

It matters not what they may leave behind;
One lays aside his staff and one his crown ;
To his last resting place of clay consigned,
Each in his nothingness has laid him down.

So go we on, still struggling to the tomb;
Each bubble breaking, yet we grasp again;
Each hoped for pleasure bringing deeper gloom,
And every joy with sorrow in its train.

Storm-wind of the equinox,

Landward in his wrath he scourges

The toiling surges,

Laden with sea-weed from the rocks:

From Bermuda's reefs; from edges

Of sunken ledges,

In some far-off, bright Azore;

From Bahama, and the dashing,

Silver-flashing

Surges of San-Salvador;

SEA-WEED.

From the tumbling surf, that buries
The Orkneyan skerries,

Answering the hoarse Hebrides;

And from wrecks of ships, and drifting

Spars, uplifting

On the desolate, rainy seas ;

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting

On the shifting

Currents of the restless main;

Till in sheltered coves, and reaches
Of sandy beaches,

All have found repose again.

So when storms of wild emotion

Strike the ocean

Of the poet's soul, ere long

From each cave and rocky fastness,

In its vastness,

Floats some fragment of a song:

From the far-off isles enchanted,

Heaven has planted

With the golden fruit of Truth;
From the flashing surf, whose vision

Gleams Elysian

In the tropic clime of Youth;

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From the strong Will, and the Endeavour

That forever

Wrestles with the tides of Fate;

From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered,
Tempest shattered,

Floating waste and desolate ;—

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting

On the shifting

Currents of the restless heart;

Till at length in books recorded,
They, like hoarded

Household words, no more depart.

"I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY."

BY WILLIAM CUTTER.

It is true there are shadows as well as lights, clouds as well as sunshine, thorns as well as roses; but it is a happy world after all.'

'I WOULD not live alway!'-yet 'tis not that here There's nothing to live for, and nothing to love; The cup of life's blessings, though mingled with tears, Is crowned with rich tokens of good from above: And dark though the storms of adversity rise,

Though changes dishearten, and dangers appall, Each hath its high purpose, both gracious and wise, And a FATHER's kind providence rules over all.

'I would not live alway!' and yet oh, to die!

With a shuddering thrill how it palsies the heart! We may love, we may pant for, the glory on high, Yet tremble and grieve from earth's kindred to part.