ing of knowledge to lucre and profession; for I am not ignorant how much that diverteth and interrupteth the prosecution and advancement of knowledge, like unto the golden ball thrown before Atalanta, which while she goeth aside and stoopeth to take up, the race is hindered.

"Declinat cursus, aurumque volubile tollit.” *

Neither is my meaning, as was spoken of Socrates, to call philosophy down from heaven to converse upon the earth; that is, to leave natural philosophy aside, and to apply knowledge only to manners and policy. But as both heaven and earth do conspire and contribute to the use and benefit of man; so the end ought to be, from both philosophies, to separate and reject vain speculations and whatsoever is empty and void, and to preserve and augment whatsoever is solid and fruitful: that knowledge may not be, as a courtesan, for pleasure and vanity only, or as a bondwoman, to acquire and gain to her masters use: but as a spouse, for generation, fruit, and comfort.

Another Pear.

VARIOUS.

[We are arrived at the period when that series of our poetical extracts which may be called "The Year of the Poets," must at length close. Upon the threshold of "Another Year," we give passages from Tennyson,-from Herrick, the great poet of old festivals,-from Keats, and from a transatlantic poet.]

THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.

I.

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing :
Toll ye the church-bells sad and slow,
And tread softly, and speak low,

For the old year lies a-dying.

• Turns from the course to grasp the rolling gold.

If the maids a spinning go;
Burn the flax, and fire the tow;

Scorch their plackets, but beware
That you singe no maiden-hair.
Bring in pails of water then,
Let the maids bewash the men:
Give St Distaff all the night,

Then bid Christmas sport good night;
And next morrow, every one

To his own vocation.

Down with the rosemary, and so
Down with the bays and mistletoe,
Down with the holly, ivy, all

Wherewith ye dress'd the Christmas hall;
That so the superstitious find

No one least branch there left behind;
For look, how many leaves there be
Neglected there, maids, trust to me,
So many goblins you shall see.

HERRICK

ST AGNES' EVE.

St Agnes' Eve-Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:

Numb were the beadsman's fingers while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censor old,

Seem'd taking flight for heaven without a death,

Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

They told her how, upon St Agnes' Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honeyed middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, supperless to bed they must retire,
And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.

Another year! another year!

The unceasing rush of time sweeps on! Whelm'd in its surges, disappear

Man's hopes and fears, for ever gone!

Oh, no! forbear that idle tale!

The hour demands another strain,
Demands high thoughts that cannot quail,
And strength to conquer and retain.

'Tis midnight-from the dark-blue sky,
The stars, which now look down on earth,
Have seen ten thousand centuries fly,
And given to countless changes birth

Shine on! shine on! with you I tread
The march of ages, orbs of light!
A last eclipse o'er you may spread,
To me, to me, there comes no night.
Oh! what concerns it him, whose way
Lies upward to the immortal dead,
That a few hairs are turning gray,
Or one more year of life has fled?

Swift years! but teach me how to bear,
To feel and act with strength and skill,
To reason wisely, nobly dare,

And speed your courses as ye will.

When life's meridian toils are done,
How calm, how rich the twilight glow!
The morning twilight of a sun

Which shines not here on things below.
But sorrow, sickness, death, the pain
To leave, or lose wife, children, friends!
What then-shall we not meet again

Where parting comes not, sorrow ends?

The fondness of a parent's care,

The changeless trust which woman gives, The smile of childhood,-it is there

That all we love in them still lives

Press onward through each varying hour;
Let no weak fears thy course delay;
Immortal being! feel thy power,
Pursue thy bright and endless way.

A. NORTON.