Soft, soft, high aloft,--
Ever thus till time is done,--
Worlds will die; may thou and I
Glide beneath a gentler sun,
Young as now and ever one.

E. FRÈRE CHAMPNEY.
_Harvard Advocate._


~A Rambling Rhyme of Dorothy.~

When ye Crocuss shews his heade
& ye Wyndes of Marche have flede,
Springe doth come, and happylye
Then I thinke of
Dorothy.

Haycockes fragrante in ye sun
Give me reste when taskes are done:
Summer's here, & merrylye
Then I dreame of
Dorothy.

Scarlette leaves & heapinge binne;
Cyder, ye cool Tankard in;
Autumn's come. Righte jollylye
Then I drinke to
Dorothy.