so either.

Something must be done-I could at least be honest, come what would-I would be honest.

"Miss Mayton," said I, hastily, earnestly, but in a very low tone, "Budge is a marplot, but he is a truthful interpreter for all that. But whatever my fate may be, please do not suspect me of falling suddenly into love for a holiday's diversion. My malady is of some months' standing. I"

"I want to talk some," observed Budge. "You talk all the whole time. I-I-when I loves anybody, I kisses them."

Miss Mayton gave a little start, and my thoughts followed each other with unimagined rapidity. She did not turn the conversation-it could not be possible that she could not. She was not angry, or she would have expressed herself. Could it be that?

I bent over her and acted upon Budge's suggestion. As she displayed no resentment, I pressed my lips a second time to her forehead, then she raised her head slightly, and I saw, in spite of darkness and shadows, that Alice Mayton had surrendered at discretion.

.. Then I heard Budge say, "I wants to kiss you, too," and I saw my glorious Alice snatch the little scamp into her arms, and treat him with more affection than I ever imagined was in her nature.-Helen's Babies.

HABINGTON, WILLIAM, an English poet, born at Hindlip, Worcestershire, in November, 1605; died there in 1654. His father, Thomas, was implicated in the Gunpowder Plot, but was pardoned. He was a Roman Catholic, educated at St. Omers, but did not take Holy Orders. He married Lucia, the daughter of Lord Powis, whom he celebrates under the name of "Castara," in a collection of lyrics with that title. A volume of his poems, containing the Mistress, the Wife, and the Holy Man, was published in 1634, and The Queen of Aragon, a tragi-comedy, in 1635.

In classifying English poets Saintsbury places Habington in the front rank of what he is pleased to call the nondescript poets of the Caroline Schoolmen, who fall below the first or even a high rank, yet who nevertheless display the characteristics of the school and apply them in different and often amusing ways. Castara, his greatest work, shows in every line that its author was a true lover; that he had a strong infusion of the abundant poetical inspiration then abroad; his religion is sincere, fervent, and often finely expressed. There are, too, traces of humor in his work. He also wrote several works in prose. Habington, more than once, expresses his admiration for Spenser and Sidney.

SPENSER AND SIDNEY.

Grown older, I admired

Our poets, as from Heaven inspired;
What obelisks decreed, I fit

For Spenser's art, and Sidney's wit.
But, waxing sober, soon I found
Fame but an idle, idle sound.

DESCRIPTION OF CASTARA.

Like the violet which alone
Prospers in some happy shade,
My Castara lives unknown
To no loose eyes betrayed

For she's to herself untrue

Who delights i' th' public view.

Such is her beauty, as no arts

Have enriched with borrowed grace; Her high birth no pride imparts,

For she blushes in her place.

Folly boasts a glorious blood;
She is noblest being good.

Cautious, she knew never yet

What a wanton courtship meant; Nor speaks loud to boast her wit; In her silence eloquent;

Of herself survey she takes.

But 'tween men no difference makes.

She obeys with speedy will

Her grave parents' wise commands And so innocent that ill

She nor acts nor understands;
Women's feet still run astray,
If once to ill they know the way.

She sails by that rock, the Court,
Where oft Honor splits her mast;

And retiredness thinks the port
Where her fame may anchor cast :
Virtue safely cannot sit,

Where vice is enthroned for wit.

She holds that day's pleasure best,
Where sin waits not on delight;
Without mask, or ball, or feast,

Sweetly spends a winter's night;
O'er that darkness, whence is thrust
Prayer and sleep, oft governs Lust,

She her throne makes reason climb,
While wild passions captive lie;
And, each article of time,

Her pure thoughts to heaven fly:
All her vows religious be,

And her love she vows to me.

DOMINE, LABIA MEA APERIES.

No monument of me remain-
My memory rust

In the same marble with my dust

Ere I the spreading laurel gain
By writing wanton or profane!

Ye glorious wonders of the skies!
Shine still, bright stars,

The Almighty's mystic characters!
I'd not your beauteous lights surprise
To illuminate a woman's eyes.

Nor to perfume her veins will I

In each one set

The purple of the violet

The untouched flowers may grow and die. Safe from my fancy's injury.

Open my lips, great God! and then

I'll soar above

The humble flight of carnal love:

Upward to Thee I'll force my pen,
And trace no paths of vulgar men.

For what can our unbounded souls
Worthy to be

Their object find, excepting Thee?
Where can I fix? since time controls
Our pride, whose motion all things rolls.

Should I myself ingratiate

To a prince's smile

How soon may death my hopes beguile ! And should I farm the proudest state, I'm tenant to uncertain fate.

If I court gold, will it not rust?
And if my love

Toward a female beauty move,
How will that surfeit of our lust
Distaste us when resolved to dust.

But thou, eternal banquet! where
Forever we

May feed without satiety !
Who harmony art to the ear :—
Who art, while all things else appear!

While up to Thee I shoot my flame,
Thou dost dispense

A holy death, that murders sense,
And makes me scorn all pomps that aim
At other triumphs than Thy name.

It crowns me with a victory
So heavenly-all

That's earth from me away doth fall :

And I am from corruption free,

Grown in my vows even part of Thee!