POETRY.

THE STOIC'S COUNSEL.

[Written, we are told, by a young girl.]

GO to—complaining Soul, Thou are not fit to be, If thou bewail what share of dole The Gods apportion thee.

Coward, confront thy carping fear And dry that unavailing tear.

Others have had their woe, And passed unhelped away, And thou along their track shalt go, As uncontent as they.

Hath patient Nature moulded thee The darling pet of Destiny?

Their brains were clear enough, Their purposes were great, Their hearts were made of haughty stuff; Yet proved no match for Fate.

She clipped the thread where twisted best,.

They went the way of all the rest.

Of aspirations wise, Of memories full sweet, High futures blossomed in their eyes, The world was at their feet.

Immortal workers ! thou'dst have said,— Yet now their works and they are dead They tried the brimming cup Of Love's delicious wine ; They took the glowing chalice up, And found its draught divine. Alas! its flavour fled one day, And they and theirs are loveless clay.

Or else a hungry heart, Through all the feast they bore, Saw Passion's self at length depart, And hope return no more.

The dream of love was all earth gave,. Until it sent the dreamless grave.

Haat thou a braver arm, A firmer will than these P Or knowest any solvent charm To melt thy destinies P Nay, be not mock'd, thou'rt but as they ; Take up thy staff and go thy way.

Fight, an thou wilt, thy fears, Haply not all for nought, But do not *et with angry tears The ground where thou haat fought.

Must any useless drops be shed, Let them be hi a that mourns the dead.

Pray—an thou must awhile, But know, ere thou begin, Thou canst not coax the heavens to smile-.

Nor feeble favours win.

In Reason's logic base thy prayer, Expect to read its answer there.

Hope not to 'scape thy pain, Not to outlive thy grief, Nor after disappointments vain, To reap a respite brief ; Count thyself foolish till thou know Slight preference 'twixt joy and woe.

And do I offer thee But bitter counsel, Soul P Yet call me not thy enemy Till I confess the whole. If difficult it seems to thee, Alas ! 'tis just as hard to met