A CHILD'S DREAM.

That so, from death's last dreamless sleep,

Thy spirit may ascend,

To know the fulness of all joy,

In glory without end!

A POSTSCRIPT.

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"No child," some critic may perchance exclaim, "Would dream like this; or dream of heaven at all!" And how knowest thou, despite thy critic fame, What heavenly dreams on childhood's slumbers fall?

ONE wiser far than thou, who cannot err

In aught of heaven or heavenly things disclosed, Of guileless hearts the best interpreter,

Hath said-of such that kingdom is composed!

Unlearn thy worldly wisdom; be no more
By self-conceit presumptuously beguiled;
But rather study that sweet, lowlier lore,

Which makes its learner as a little child!

JOHN EVELYN.

A TRUE philosopher! well taught to scan
The works of nature, those of art to prize;
The latter cordially to patronize,

But to the first, their AUTHOR, and their plan,
Giving that homage of far ampler span
Awarded by the good, the great, the wise:
A hearty lover of old household ties;
And, to crown all, a Christian gentleman!
Such wert thou, EVELYN, in a busy age
Of restless change, to dissipation prone;
And, at thy death, upon thy coffin-stone,
Hast left this record, worthy many a page,
That "
ALL NOT HONEST," on this mortal stage,
"IS VAIN! and NOTHING WISE SAVE PIETY ALONE !

*

* Evelyn is buried at Wotton, under a tomb of freestone, shaped like a coffin; with an inscription thereon, by his own direction, stating that, "Living in an age of extraordinary events and revolutions, he had learned from thence this truth, which he desired might be thus communicated to posterity; THAT ALL IS VANITY WHICH IS NOT HONEST! AND THAT THERE IS NO SOLID WISDOM BUT IN REAL PIETY!"

A COLLOQUY WITH MYSELF.

"As I walked by myself, I talked to myself,
And myself replied to me;

And the questions myself then put to myself,
With their answers, I give to thee.

Put them home to thyself, and if unto thyself
Their responses the same should be,

O look well to thyself, and beware of thyself,
Or so much the worse for thee."

WHAT are riches? Hoarded treasures
May, indeed, thy coffers fill;

Yet, like earth's most fleeting pleasures,
Leave thee poor and heartless still.

What is pleasure? When afforded
But by gauds that pass away,
Read its fate in lines recorded

On the sea-sands yesterday.

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A COLLOQUY WITH MYSELF.

What is fashion? Ask of folly;

She her worth can best express.
What is moping melancholy?

Go and learn of idleness.

What is truth? Too stern a preacher
For the prosperous and the gay;
But a safe and wholesome teacher
In adversity's dark day.

What is friendship? If well founded,
Like some beacon's heavenward glow;

If on false pretensions grounded,

Like the treacherous sands below.

What is love? If earthly only,

Like a meteor of the night;

Shining but to leave more lonely

Hearts that hailed its transient light.

But when calm, refined, and tender,
Purified from passion's stain,
Like the moon, in gentle splendour,
Ruling o'er the peaceful main.

A COLLOQUY WITH MYSELF.

What are hopes? But gleams of brightness,
Glancing darkest clouds between ;
Or foam-crested waves, whose whiteness
Gladdens ocean's darksome green.

What are fears? Grim phantoms, throwing
Shadows o'er the pilgrim's way,

Every moment darker growing

If we yield unto their sway.

What is mirth? A flash of lightning,
Followed but by deeper gloom.

Patience? More than sunshine brightening

Sorrow's path, and labour's doom.

What is time? A river flowing

To eternity's vast sea; Forward, whither all are going, On its bosom bearing thee.

What is life? A bubble floating
On that silent, rapid stream;
Few, too few, its progress noting,
Till it bursts and ends the dream.

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