What constitutes a State

What is life? 'tis but a vapour

What shall I do, lest life in silence pass?

Where is the fame

Yet once more saith the fool, yet once more, and is it not a

little one

Ye say they all have passed away

Your voiceless lips, O flowers! are living preachers

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The compiler of this little work expresses his thanks to Messrs. Longman and Co., Mr. Moxon, Messrs. Blackwood and Sons, Messrs. R. Browning, M. Tupper, and other Authors and Publishers, for their permission to use copyright pieces.

THE EDUCATIONAL TRADING COMPANY, LIMITED,

LONDON, BIRMINGHAM, AND BRISTOL.

There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay,
The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre,
Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll.
For me when I forget the darling theme,
Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray
Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams,
Or Winter rises in the black'ning east,
Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more,
And, dead to joy, forbid my heart to beat!
Should Fate command me to the farthest verge
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes,
Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam
Flames o'er the Atlantic isles:-'tis nought to me.
Since God is ever present, ever felt

In the void waste, as in the city full,

And where He vital breathes, there must be joy.
When even at last the solemn hour shall come,
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,
I cheerful will obey; there with new pow'rs,
Will rising wonders sing: I cannot go,
Where universal love not smiles around,
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns-
From seeming evil still educing good,
And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progression. But I lose
Myself in Him, in Light ineffable;

Come then expressive Silence, muse His praise.

THOMSON.

PRINCE ARTHUR PLEADING WITH HUBERT
FOR HIS EYES.

Have you a heart? When your head did but ache
I knit my handkerchief about your brows,

(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,)

And I did never ask it you again;

And with my hand at midnight held your head,
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheered up the heavy time,

Saying, What lack you, and where lies your grief?
Or, what good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning; do, and if you will;
If heaven be pleased, that you must use me ill,