A yudicial A nthology. THE NINETIETH PSALM. O Lord, thou art our home, to whom we fly, And so hast always been, from age to age : Before the hills did intercept the eye, Or that the frame was up of earthly stage, One God thou wert, and art, and still shall be; The line of Time, it doth not measure Thee.
Thou carriest man away as with a tide : Then down swim all his thoughts that mounted high : Much like a mocking dream that will not bide, But flies before the sight of waking eye; Or as the grass, that cannot term obtain To see the summer come about again.
The life of man is threescore years and ten, Or, that if he be strong, perhaps four score; Yet all things are but labor to him then, New sorrows still come on, pleasures no more. Why should there be such turmoil and such strife To spin in length this feeble line of life? But who considers duly of thine ire, Or doth the thoughts thereof wisely em brace? For thou, O God, art a consuming fire : Frail man, how can he stand before thy face? If thy displeasure thou dost not refrain, A moment brings all back to dust again. Francis Bacon. A LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE. As, by some tyrant's stern command, A wretch forsakes his native land, In foreign climes condemned to roam An endless exile from his home; 75
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Pensive he treads the destined way, And dreads to go, nor dares to stay, Till on some neighboring mountain's brow He stops, and turns his eyes below; There, melting at the well-known view, Drops a last tear, and bids adieu : So I, thus doomed from thee to part, Gay queen of Fancy and of Art, Reluctant move, with doubtful mind, Oft stop, and often look behind. William Blackstone-
VIRGIL'S "DESCENT INTO HADES." (Bk. VI. 268-281.) So, unseen in the darkness, they went by night on the road Down the unpeopled Kingdom of Death and his ghostly abode, As men journey in woods when a doubtful moon has bestowed Little of light, when Jove has concealed in shadow the heaven, When from the world, by sombre Night, Day's colours are driven. Facing the porch itself, in the jaws of the gate of the dead Grief, and Remorse, the Avenger, have built their terrible bed. There dwells pale-cheeked Sickness, and Old Age, sorrowful-eyed, Fear, and the temptress Famine, and hideous Want at her side, — Grim and tremendous shapes. There Death with Labor is joined; Sleep, half-brother of Death, and the Joys unclean of the mind. Murderous Battle is camped on the threshold. Fronting the door The iron cells of the Furies; and frenzied Strife, evermore Wreathing her serpent tresses with garlands dabbled in gore. Charles Synge Christopher Bowen.
