LIFE. * [The following exquisite piece is from the pen of Francis Beaumont, the coadjutor of Fletcher in the composition of dramas, second only in our language to those of Shakspear. Beaumont was no mean star in that bright galaxy of talent which o'erarched the Elizabethan court. These Lines derive an additional and mournful significancy from the fact, that the gifted author's “star was shot,” before he attained the age of thirty.]

LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh Spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood:

E'en such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in and paid to-night:-
The wind blows out, the bubble dies;
The Spring entombed in Autumn lies;
The dew's dried up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot.


“ EARLY to bed and early to rise;"

Aye, note it down in your brain,
For it helpeth to make the foolish wise,

And uproots the weeds of pain.
Ye who are walking on thorns of care,

Who sigh for a softer bower,
Try what can be done in the morning sun,

And make use of the early hour.
Full many a day for ever is lost

By delaying its work till to-morrow;
The minutes of sloth have often cost

Long years of bootless sorrow.

• These Lines, which have been parodied more frequently perhaps than any others in our language, will no doubt be familiar to most of our readers. We have ourselves seen some dozen versions of the poem, ascribed to as many different authors; but we have much pleasure in reprinting the above lines, as our correspondent refers them without doubt to their legitimate source; and it is well at once to cry " Stop Thief" to all imitators and plagiarists. Ed.

And ye, who win the lasting wealth

Of content and peaceful power;
Ye who would couple labour and health,

Must begin at the early hour.
Nature herself ever shows her best
Of gems to the gaze

of the lark,
When the spangles of light on earth's green breast

Put out the stars of the dark.
If we love the purest pearl of the dew,

And the richest breath of the flower;
If our spirits would greet the fresh and the sweet,

Go forth at the early hour.
Oh! pleasure and rest are more easily found

When we start through morning's gate,
To sum up our figures or plough up our ground,

And weave out the threads of fate!
The eye looketh bright and the heart keepeth light,

And man holdeth the conqueror's power,
When ready and brave he claims Time as his slave,

By the help of the early hour!*
Early to bed and early to rise,

have time to pray ;
Beneath the glorious morning skies

Seek blessings for all the day.
There are many who greet the morning light

In healthful, joyous glee,
Who are in eternity ere 'tis night,

And it may be so with THEE !
The purest and best who ere trod our earth

Arose ere yet it was day;
While slumbers wrapt the sons of mirth

He ascends the Mount to pray. * The preceding verses, we owe to one of the most popular authoresses of our day-Eliza Cook. To the editress of the “ Mothers' Friend," a Magazine well deserving the title, published by Mr. B. L. Green, we are indebted for those which follow, and which are thus modestly prefaced in the work referred to. "We do exceedingly like these lines, and advise mothers to teach them to their children, and enter into the spirit of them themselves, but we must be allowed to add a little to them."-ED.

That you may

Ere the wings of light had chased the night,

He pleads with the God of love, And now as a victor, with zeal and might,

He continues his work above. And can a mother prolong her rest

While the early hour glides by,
And her little group remains unblest,

With an enemy ever nigh;
And does she profess to follow him

Who arose ere yet 'twas day?
Does she think it safe, in this world of sin,

To sleep when she ought to pray!



(Hosea iv. 17.)
“ LET Him alone!" Oh Lord! on me
Ne'er send that awful, dire decree;
Rather let me bear the rod,
As coming from a Father-God.
Under sorrows deep and strong,
Let my heart arise in song,
Thou chast'nest whom thou lovest, Lord,
Mercy wields thy piercing sword!
Go and enjoy thy fleeting years,
Secure thy Spring ere Autumn sears;
" Let Him alone"-I will not care,
For one who will my anger dare.
Nay, rather, let me bear the cross,
Worldly pleasures count but dross;


heart, to evil prone,
Oh! Jesus, Leave me not alone!
When I breathe the suffering sigh,
Then I know that Thou art nigh;
When I weep o'er friendship's grave,
Then I know that Thou wilt save.

When I to myself am left,
And my heart of warmth bereft,

Then I tremble at my lot:
But dearest Saviour-Leave me not.


SHE had been told that God made all the stars
That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood
Watching the coming of the twilight on,
As if it were a new and perfect world,
And this were its first eve. How beautiful
Must be the work of Nature to a child
In its first fresh impression! Laura stood
By the low window, with the silken lash
Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth
Half parted with the new and strange delight
Of beauty that she could not comprehend,
And had not seen before. The purple folds
Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky
That looked so still and delicate above,
Filled her young heart with gladness, and the eve
Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still
Stood looking at the west with that half smile,
As if a pleasant thought were at her heart.
Presently, in the edge of the last tint
Of sunset, where the blue was melted in
To the faint golden mellowness, a star
Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight
Burst from her lips, and, putting up her hands,
Her simple thought broke forth expressively-
Father, dear father, God has made a star!”

N. P. Willis.

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