Brilliants. BEAUTY. Ah, fair Zenocrate ! divine Zenocrate! WELCOME. O my reviving joy! thy quickening presence I cannot make thy welcome rich enough HONORABLE EMPLOYMENTS. MIDDLETON. Oh, my lord, lie not idle: The chiefest action for a man of great spirit Is never to be out of action. We should think; The soul was never put into the body, Which has so many rare and curious pieces Virtue is ever sowing of her seeds; In the trenches for the soldier; in the wakeful study For the scholar; in the furrows of the sea For men of our profession : of all which WEBSTER. A MASTER SPIRIT. Give me a spirit that on life's rough sea CHAPMAN. WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. Who would have thought it? She that could no more When they drown'd all the world: yet now forsakes me. MARSTON. ABDICATION OF EDWARD II. Here, take my crown; the life of Edward too; MARLOWE. LOVERS' QUARRELS. prithee forgive me, I did but chide in jest: the best loves use it A kiss tastes wondrous well, and full o' the grape. MIDDLETON. SINGLE LIFE. O fie upon this single life: forego it. Was frozen into marble; whereas those Which married, or proved kind unto their friends, Became flowers, precious stones, or eminent stars. WEBSTER. QUALITIES OF A COURTIER. "Tis not a black coat and a littleband, A velvet-caped cloak, faced before with serge, Or looking downward with your eyelids close, MARLOWE. LITTLE FANNY. The subject of this poem is a daughter who died in childhood. The writer is ROBERT STORY, a Northumberland peasant. WE often laugh'd at Fanny, But we loved her while we laugh'd; Of simplicity and craft. Whate'er she thought she utter'd, And her words she-" reckon'd nou't" Of the purest mountain rill. But we loved her while we laugh'd! A short life was my Fanny's, All through her words, when dying, We had laugh'd more than we ought. Yet even in those moments Came out a phrase, a word, That reminded us of periods When the same with mirth we heard. And we oft recall her sayings, Her playfulness and craft; But now 'tis odd-we weep the most 86 VOL. VI. H HOURS LIKE THOSE. By J. J. CALLANAN. [James Joseph Callanan was born in the county, if not in the city, of Cork in 1795. Being destined for the priesthood he was sent to Maynooth College, but feeling little sympathy for the clerical vocation he quitted that establishment in 1816. He pursued his classical studies afterwards in Trinity College, Dublin, and gained there two poetic prizes. One may suppose he was of that dreamy nature which so often unfits the possessor for the active pursuits of life, for Callanan seems never to have settled down to any. He is described, too, as of a procrastinating disposition, acting on the system of that noble lord who would "never do anything to-day he could possibly put off till tomorrow." He was a great favourite in society, and this helped to idle him also, the call of social pleasure having for him a Siren voice. Only one thing could draw him from that fascination, and that was his deeper love for the beauties of nature; and it is quite touching to find in his memoirs how he was wont to rush back, time after time, to the mountain region of South Munster, and wander alone through its wild scenery, on which his poetic fancy feasted, and which he has so beautifully described in his ode to "Gougane Barra," (given in Vol. 4, p. 21, of this Selection.) He left Ireland in 1827 in a bad state of health, and resided in Lisbon for two years; but his health still declined, and in 1829 he embarked to return to Ireland, wishing to breathe his last in his native land. But the wish was not gratified. Symptoms of dissolution set in before the vessel sailed, and he was put on shore, and died at Lisbon in his thirty-fourth year.]-Irish Lyrics. HOURS like those I spent with you, 'Tis not thy cheek's soft blended hue; It is thy wit, that flashes bright |