There gravel walks are for recreation,

And meditation in sweet solitude.

'Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or
The gentle plover, in the afternoon;
And if a lady would be so engaging

As for to walk in those shady groves,

"Tis there the courtier might soon transport her Into some fort, or the "sweet rock-close."

There are statues gracing this noble place in
All heathen gods, and nymphs so fair;
Bold Neptune, Caesar, and Nebuchadnezzar,
All standing naked in the open air!
There is a boat on the lake to float on,
And lots of beauties which I can't entwine;
But were I a preacher, or a classic teacher,
In every feature I'd make 'em shine!

There is a stone there, that whoever kisses,
Oh! he never misses to grow eloquent.
'Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber,
Or become a member of parliament:
A clever spouter he'll sure turn out, or
An out-and-outer, "to be let alone,"

Don't hope to hinder him, or to bewilder him; Sure he's a pilgrim from the Blarney stone!

LINES PRINTED UNDER THE ENGRAVED

PORTRAIT OF MILTON,

IN TONSON'S FOLIO EDITION OF THE "PARADISE LOST," 1688.
John Dryden.

THREE poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
The first, in loftiness of thought surpassed;
The next, in majesty; in both the last.
The force of Nature could no farther go;
To make a third, she joined the former two.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Charles Wolfe.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And. we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone But we left him alone with his glory!

THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT.

Michael Drayton.

FAIR stood the wind for France,

When we our sails advance,

Nor now to prove our chance

Longer will tarry;

But putting to the main,

At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,

With all his martial train,
Landed king Harry.

And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marcheth toward Agincourt
In happy hour-

Skirmishing day by day

With those that stopped his way, Where the French gen'ral lay With all his power,

Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,

His ransom to provide

To the king sending;

Which he neglects the while,

As from a nation vile,

Yet, with an angry smile,

Their fall portending.

And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then: "Though they to one be ten,

Be not amazed;

Yet have we well begun ·
Battles so bravely won

Have ever to the sun

By fame been raised.

"And for myself," quoth he,

"This my full rest shall be; England ne'er mourn for me,

Nor more esteem me.

Victor I will remain,

Or on this earth lie slain;

Never shall she sustain

Loss to redeem me.

"Poitiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell;

No less our skill is

Than when our grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat,

By many a warlike feat

Lopped the French lilies."

The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward led;

With the main Henry sped,

Amongst his henchmen.

Excester had the rear

A braver man not there:

O Lord! how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone;
Armor on armor shone;

Drum now to drum did groan

To hear was wonder;