THE QUESTIONER.

I ASK not for his lineage,
I ask not for his name:
If manliness be in his heart
He noble birth may claim.

I care not though of world's wealth
But slender be his part,

If "Yes" you answer when I ask "Hath he a true man's heart?"

I ask not from what land he came, Nor where his youth was nursed: pure the stream, it matters not The spot from whence it burst.

If

THE PRIMROSE.

THE milk-white blossoms of the thorn
Are waving o'er the pool,

Moved by the wind that breathes along
So sweetly and so cool.

The hawthorn clusters bloom above,
The primrose hides below,
And on the lonely passer-by
A modest glance doth throw.

The humble primrose' bonnie face,
I meet it everywhere:

Where other flowers disdain to blow,
It comes and nestles there.

Like God's own light, on every place
In glory it doth fall,

And where its dwelling-place is made
It straightway hallows all.

Where'er the green-winged linnet sings,
A primrose bloometh lone,
And love it wins, deep love from all
Who gaze its sweetness on.

On field-paths narrow, and in woods,
We meet thee near and far,

Till thou becomest prized and loved
As things familiar are.

--Nicoll.

We have been sad together,

We have wept with bitter tears

O'er the grass-grown graves where slumbered
The hopes of early years.

The voices which are silent there
Would bid thee clear thy brow:

We have been sad together-
Oh! what shall part us now?

-Hon. Mrs. Norton.

ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE III.

ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE III.
I SAW him last on that terrace proud,
Walking in health and gladness,

Begirt with his Court; and in all the crowd,
Not a single look of sadness.

Bright was the sun, the leaves were green,
Blithely the birds were singing,

The cymbals replied to the tambourine,
And the bells were merrily ringing.

I have stood with the crowd beside his bier,
When not a word was spoken-

When every eye was dim with a tear,
And the silence by sobs was broken.

I have heard the earth on his coffin pour
To the muffled drums' deep rolling,
While the minute-gun, with its solemn roar,
Drowned the death-bell's tolling.

The time since he walked in his glory thus
To the grave till I saw him carried,
Was an age of the mightiest change to us,
But to him a night unvaried.

A daughter beloved, a queen, a son,

And a son's sole child have perished;
And sad was each heart, save only the one
By which they were fondest cherished.

For his eyes were sealed, and his mind was dark,
And he sat in his age's lateness,

Like a vision throned as a solemn mark
Of the frailty of human greatness.

His silver beard o'er a bosom spread
Unvexed by life's commotion,

Like a yearly lengthening snowdrift shed
On the calm of a frozen ocean.

Still o'er him oblivion's waters lay,

Though the stream of life kept flowing; When they spoke of our king, 't was but to say The old man's strength was going.

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