They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;

And farther there were none !

-Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;

And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

DR. EDWARD YOUNG.

BORN 1081.

DIED 1765.

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PRINCIPAL WRITINGS:- Night Thoughts; The Love of Fame, the universal passion (a satire); Tragedies (Busiris, The Revenge, The Brothers); The Last Day (a Paraphrase on the Book of Job); Odes and Epistles; Resignation.

The Danger of Procrastination.

BE wise to-day,-'tis madness to defer;
Next day, the fatal precedent will plead;
Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life.

Procrastination is the thief of time,
Year after year it steals, till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
At thirty man suspects himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought
Resolves; and re-resolves; then dies the same.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

Edward the Black Prince.

'LL tell you a tale of a knight, my boy,

The bravest that ever was known;

A lion he was in the fight, my boy,

A lamb when the battle was done.

Oh, he need not be named; for who has not heard

Of the glorious son of King Edward the Third?

Armour he wore as black as jet;

His sword was keen and good;

He conquer'd every foe he met,

And he spar'd them when subdued.

Valiant and generous, and gentle and bold,

Was the Black Prince of England in days of old.

Often he charged with spear and lance
At the head of his valorous knights;
But the battle of Poictiers,* won in France,
Was the noblest of all his fights;
And every British heart should be
Proud when it thinks of that victory.

The French were many-the English few;
But the Black Prince little heeded :

His knights, he knew, were brave and true;
Their arms were all he needed.

He ask'd not how many might be the foe;
Where are they? was all that he sought to know.

So he spurr'd his steed, and he couch'd his lance,
And the battle was won and lost;

Captive he took King John of France,
The chief of that mighty host;

Faint grew the heart of each gallant foe ;
Their leader was taken; their hopes were low.

Brave were the French; but at last they yield, All wearied and worn out :

The Prince is conqueror of the field;

And the English soldiers shout, "God save our Prince, our mighty lord! Victory waiteth on his sword!"

* Battle of Poictiers, A.D. 1356,

Of all the knights who fought that day,
James Audley was the best;

His wounds were three, won valiantly,

On cheek, and brow, and breast:

And the Black Prince said, when the fight was o'er, He never had seen such a knight before!

And did they chain King John of France?
Was he in dungeon laid?

Oh, little ye know what a generous foe
Our English Edward made!

A gentle heart, and an arm of might-
These are the things that make a knight.

He set King John on a lofty steed,
White as the driven snow,

And without all pride he rode beside,

On a palfrey slight and low:

He spoke to the King with a reverent mien,
As though the King had his captor been.

He treated King John like an honour'd guest;
When at the feast he sate,

With courteous air, and with forehead bare,
The Prince did on him wait;

And even when they to England came,

Our generous hero was the same.

But the prisoner's heart it grew not light,

For all the Prince could say ;

A captive King and a conquer'd knight,

Oh, how could he be gay?

E'en while his courteous words were speaking, For his own dear France his heart was breaking.

Another lay shall the story tell

Of this valiant King and true:

He loved the Black Prince passing well,

And his worth full well he knew.

Then let us all unite to praise

That hero of the olden days.

The Romans, when they won the day
And bore their captives home,
Caused them to march in sad array,

Fetter'd and chain'd, through Rome;
And every foe, though good and brave,
They held as victim or as slave.

But ours was a Christian conqueror,
Generous, and true, aud kind:

Though the grave has now closed o'er his brow,
He hath left this rule behind,—

That valour should ever wedded be

To mercy, and not to cruelty.

LAYS AND BALLADS FROM ENGLISH HISTORY.