He's my much respected tutor, who has taught me how to read,

And I'm sure your royal kindness should receive its proper meed;

So I grant you full permission to select your own reward;

Choose a gift to suit your fancy,-something worthy of the lord!"

"Eva Bacche!" cried the monarch, "If I do not make too bold,

Let whatever I may handle be transmuted into gold!"

Midas, sitting down to dinner, sees the answer to his wish,

For the turbot on the platter turns into a golden fish! And the bread between his fingers is no longer wheaten bread,

But the slice he tries to swallow is a wedge of gold instead!

And the roast he takes for mutton fills his mouth with golden meat,

Very tempting to the vision, but extremely hard to eat;

And the liquor in his goblet, very rare, select, and old,

Down the monarch's thirsty throttle runs a stream of liquid gold!

Quite disgusted with his dining, he betakes him to his bed;

But, alas! the golden pillow doesn't rest his weary head;

Nor does all the gold around him soothe the monarch's tender skin;

Golden sheets, to sleepy mortals, might as well be sheets of tin!

Now poor Midas, straight repenting of his rash and foolish choice,

Went to Bacchus, and assured him, in a very plaintive voice,

That his golden gift was working in a manner most unpleasant;

And the god, in sheer compassion, took away the fatal present.

By this mythologic story we are very plainly told, That, though gold may have its uses, there are better things than gold;

That a man may sell his freedom to procure the shining pelf:

And that Avarice, though it prosper, still contrives to cheat itself!

J. Godfrey Saxe.

ΟΙ

YOUNG LOCHINVAR.

H, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;

And save his good broad-sword he weapon had

none,

He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone!
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar !

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,

He swam the Esk river where ford there was none-
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late :
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 'Mong bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all!

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword

For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word— "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war? Or to dance at our bridal? young Lord Lochinvar!"

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied: Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide! And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine! There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!"

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup ! She look'd down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar— "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace!
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and
plume,

And the bride-maidens whisper'd, ""Twere better by far

To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!"

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near,

So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and

scaur;

They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;

Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see! So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?

Scott.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

ELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!"

For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal:
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb driven cattle;
Be a hero in the strife;

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the Dead Past bury its dead!
Act, act in the living Present;
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time:

Footprints that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

Longfellow.

THE CHAMELEON.

FT has it been my lot to mark

OF

A proud, conceited, talking spark,
With eyes that hardly served at most
To guard their master 'gainst a post;
Yet round the world the blade has been,
To see whatever could be seen.
Returning from his finished tour,
Grown ten times perter than before;
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The travelled fool your mouth will stop: