LINES ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG FRIEND.

BY MAURICE HARCOURT.

He has left the vale of tears,
While yet a child in years,
For that celestial shore,

Where grief disturbs no more;
Where reigns the Saviour of mankind,
Where broken hearts a refuge find.

For many a lonesome hour
Pain only was his dower,
But, oh! there was a ray,
Changing sorrow's night to day-
The ray of hope which faith inspires,
When wane the Christian's vital fires.

When his spirit wing'd his flight
To the regions of delight;
When corruption off he threw,
What a joy supreme he knew.
"I come, Lord Jesus, unto thee,'
He falter'd-then his soul was free!

"

Few may thus resign their breath,
And expire so sweet a death;
Affection's, not grief's, tear,
Bedewed the early bier

Of the departed, borne to rest-
We felt that he had joined the blest.

Oh! deem not that the bloom
Of health can cheat the tomb;
'Tis the young who first descend
To the bourne, where all must wend.
So live, that when thy time is nigh,
Thou may'st, like him we mourn for, die.

THE OLD QUEEN AND YOUNG COUNTRY GIRL.

Enlarge my life with multitude of days

In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays;
Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know,
That life protracted is protracted woe.-Johnson.

THERE was upon a time an old Queen, so very far stricken in years that her majesty was toothless and bald: her head shook and trembled perpetually, like the leaves of an aspen; and her sight was so dim, that spectacles were of no longer use to her; her mouth was almost hid by the near approach of the nose to the chin; her stature was so diminished, that she was shrunk into a shapeless heap; and her back was so bowed, that you would have thought she had been crooked from her infancy.

A fairy, who assisted at the birth of this queen, came to her and said, "Do you desire to grow young again ?""Most earnestly," replied the queen; "I would part with all my jewels to be but twenty." Then," continued the fairy, it will be necessary to make an exchange, and to transfer your age and infirmities to some one who will be contented to spare you her youth and health. To whom, therefore, shall we give your hundred years?"

Hereupon the Queen gave orders to make diligent inquiry throughout the kingdom, for a person who might be willing to barter youth for age, upon a valuable consideration. When these orders were publicly known, a great many poor people, from all parts, flocked to the court; all of them desirous to be made old and rich but, when they had seen the queen at dinner, hideous in her infirmities, trembling and coughing over a mess of water-gruel, and doating ever and anon as she spoke, not one was inclinable to take up the burden of her years. They chose rather to live by begging, and to enjoy youth and health in rags. There came, likewise, a crowd of ambitious persons, to whom she promised great dignities and the highest honours : but when they had seen her; "What will all our grandeur avail," said they, "when we shall appear so frightful as to be ashamed to shew ourselves in public?"

At last there came a young country girl, whose name

was Mopsy, in full bloom; who demanded no less than the crown, as an equivalent for her youth and beauty. The queen immediately grew angry; but to what purpose? she was bent upon renewing her vigour at any rate, and she said to Mopsy, "Let us divide my kingdom, and share alike: you shall reign over one half, and I will content myself with the other: this will be power enough in conscience for you, who are but a little, mean peasant." "No," replies the girl, "I am not so easily satisfied; let me enjoy my obscure condition and my rosy complexion, and much good may it do your majesty with your hundred years and your wrinkles, and more than one foot in the grave." "But then," says the queen, "what should I be able to do without my kingdom?" "You would laugh, you would dance, you would sing, like me," answers the young gipsy; and immediately she broke out into laughter, and danced and sung. The queen, who was far from being in a condition to imitate her jollity, said; "And what would you do in my place? you are neither accustomed to old age, nor empire." "I cannot well say," answers this country lass, "what I should do, but I have a great mind to try it a little; for I have always heard it is a fine thing to be a queen."

When the two parties seemed now disposed to an agree ment, and were ready to strike the bargain, in comes the fairy; and, addressing herself to Mopsy, said, "Are you willing to make trial of the condition of an old queen; and see first how you like it, before you resolve upon the change in good earnest?" "With all my heart," replies the girl. Her forehead is instantly furrowed with wrinkles, her chesnut hair turns white, she grows peevish and morose, her head shakes, her teeth are loose, and she is already an hundred years old. The fairy then opens a little box, and lets out a multitude of officers and courtiers of both sexes, richly apparelled, who soon shot up into the full stature of men and women, and paid their homage to the new queen. She is conducted to her chair of state, and a costly banquet is immediately set before her: but, alas! she has no appetite, and cannot bear the fumes of the table: her limbs fail her when she tries to walk; she is awkward and bashful, and in a maze; she knows not how to speak, nor which

way to turn herself; she calls for a looking glass; and is startled at her own deformity; and she coughs till her sides ache.

In the mean time the true queen stands in a corner of the room by herself; she laughs, and begins to grow handsome. Her temples are shaded with hair, and she renews her teeth; her cheeks glow with youth, and her forehead is fair and smooth. And now she begins to recollect her youthful airs and virgin coyness; and sets her person out to the best advantage. But she is troubled to find herself but meanly apparelled: her coats short and scanty, and her waistcoat of a coarse woollen stuff; she was not used to be thus poorly equipped; and one of her own guards, who took her for some rude creature, went to turn her out of the palace.

Then said Mopsy to her, "I perceive you are not a little uneasy in my condition, and I am much more weary of your's; take your crown again and give me back my russet garment." The exchange was scon made; as soon the queen withered, and the virgin-peasant bloomed afresh. The restitution was hardly completed on both sides, when each began to repent; but it was too late, for the fairy had now condemned them both to remain in their proper condition.

The queen bewailed herself daily upon the smallest indisposition: "Alas!" would she say, if I was Mopsy at this time, I should sleep indeed in a cottage, and feed upon chesnuts; but then, by day, I should dance in the shade with the shepherds, to the sweet music of the pipe. What am I happier for lying in an embroidered bed, where I am never free from pain? or, for my numerous attendants, who have not the power to relieve me?"

Her grief for having forfeited her choice increased her indispositiona; and the physicians (who were twelve in number) constantly attending her, soon brought her distempers to a height. Briefly, she died at the end of two months. Mopsy was in the midst of a dance with her companions, on the bank of a running stream, when tidings came of the queen's death; then she blessed herself that she had escaped from royalty, more through good-fortune and impatience, than through forecast and resolution.

THE PILGRIM KNIGHT.

A BALLAD.

"Oh! lady fair! a pilgrim waits
Admittance at thy castle gates;
Straight from the holy land comes he,
With news of the lord who is over the sea.'
"Lady, shall I, thy humble thrall,
Dare to admit him within thy wall?"-
"Show him at once to the castle hall !"

Then downward hied that lowly thrall,
And ushered him into the castle hall.

"Oh! lowly thrall!" said the holy man,
As to look around him he began,-

Say, oh! say, does thy lady fair, Still for her lord, her duty bear?"

Ay, duly, morning, noon, and night, Mourns she, and prays for her absent knight!" ""Tis well, 'tis well!" the pilgrim said,

And he muffled his mantle around his head,
As forward by love and duty sped,
Was heard the lady's gentle tread.

"Oh! holy man! now tell me true!
Bear'st thou the news that I must rue?
Or is my Wilfred alive and well,
Whatever thy tidings, oh! quickly tell!"
"Oh! lady fair, thy Wilfred lives,
And this ring by me to thee he gives!
For he gazes on one he loves as well,
As ever be loved thee, Isabel!"

Then down on the floor that lady fell,
For she kew that terrible token well!
She knew he was false, or else—that ring,
He would trust none but himself to bring!

"Isabel! Isabel! open thine eyes!
Tis Wilfred himself that frantic cries!
Awake! revive! or I must rue

For ever this mumming!-thy Wilfred's true!"