That was a dismal day for Ashby canons

When first the edict it went forth to shew

That they must lose their home and all their mammon— Such days as these they ne'er before did know.

The ground on which it stood is near forgot ;
I often tread it going to and fro;
And many pass it, and they know it not,

For wood, and grass, and roads have turned it so.

No ruins stand to mark the sacred place

Where many a monk hath held his nightly vigil; No stone is left to tell, with loving grace,

Where good men dwelt-the place it now is level,

Except the fine old church and stately tower,
That still is left, where good men they can pray;
But no clock is there to tell the time and hour-
The ancient peal of bells is swept away.

The vineyard-garden still it doth remain,

Where many a monk hath worked in days of yore; The old grey walls are covered o'er again

With trees and vines-the like hath grown before.

Beyond, is the canon's walk, a raised bank;

It still remains for modern feet to tread;

And friars and monks, we've only them to thank,
Who left a monument now they are dead.

The stews below are stored with little fish,
Not such as monks or canons ever meant,
For forty they would scarcely make a dish,
Or satisfy one poor man in Lent.

Yet are the fish ponds on a larger scale,
Teeming with larger fish which we admire ;
And anglers going there do seldom fail

To carry home the load they may desire.

The ancient house, with its more warlike tower,
Hath stood the blast of many a Winter's day,
With its fickle clock, which sometimes tells the 'hour,
Is slowly, crumbling to decay.

The terraced garden, with its old grey wall,
Some distant views affords to those who see
The lions rampant and the cedars tall,
The nearer avenue of timber trees.

Relics of chiseled stones of ancient art,

Which lie in heaps or scattered here and there, From which the master here he would not part, He delights in ancient things as well as rare.

The little park, with all its fallow deer,
The timber trees, now going to decay;
The limes and elms, and noisy rooks to cheer,
Are all worth seeing on a Summer's day.

The fowls and pheasants, and the keeper's cot,
The swans reposing by the water's side;
The spotted sheep, which look like Jacob's lot;
The shepherd's statue and the dog's beside.

The fine old oaks, the orchard, and the well
Flows on with steady pace, it doth not stay;
The stream which fed the monastery, they tell,
Supply Ashby House and cottages to-day.

The Ashby canons they have passed away,
And well it was for England and poor men ;
Canons and friars long since have had their sway—
May monasteries and monks ne'er rise again.

The Honey Bee.

Two beehives in my garden stand
For bees, there Winter's home;
They live on sweets they can command,

They sip it from the comb.

Where did they get their honey from?

Was it in idle play?

Or did they fly about, and roam
In Summer's sunny day?

They early in the morning went,
And called at many a flower,
Because they by their queen was sent-
They did not mind a shower.

And on the fruit trees which they see
They stop and give a call;

And there they sip, for they are free
To taste the flowers of all.

I have seen them fly from their retreat, To seek the flowers of lime;

And there they get much that is sweet,— But its in the Summer time.

Now what is this to all around?
It tells us every one

That we should work and till the ground,
For the Summer soon is gone.

The emblem of our life is there:
We should begin in early Spring
If we would get with toil and care,
Like bees upon the wing.

Our homes, domestic joys are made,
And purchased with our toil,
It may be in some busy trade,
Or it may be on the soil.

It will yield us back some honey too,
And make our homes look bright;
It will purchase for us comforts new,
For Winter's chilly night.

Our life, its sunshine and its showers,
They are together joined ;
But if we waste away the hours,
No honey shall we find.

Domestic joys spring not from ease,
But through our busy lives;
And man he should be like the bees,
In their humble little hives.

For Winter is to them their rest,
'Tis like the night to men;
Then they at early Spring come drest,
In their humble garb again.

Not like the dandy wasp so fast,
Who only comes to steal,
Who flies about, and rests at last
Where ripe fruits do reveal.

Who seek the fruits and not the flowers,
Like dressy girls or men ;

Who flirt and waste away the hours,
A short, merry life have then.

But then, when Winter comes, their day
Soon, very soon, is o'er ;

They have wasted Summer time away,
And no honey have in store.

Take a lesson from the honey bee,

In youth save what you can,

But always in an honest way,
And grow a useful man.

Then when sickness comes or life decays,
Ye have a home wherein to dwell,
Stored with the fruit of early days,
Like honey in the cell.

Two beehives in my garden stand,
Bees live contented there;
May we get sweets from off the land,
While God our lives shall spare.

Infancy.

Born we are a helpless thing,
And from the dust at first we spring,
Among creation's host;

Cared for we must be at first

By gentle hands, be dressed and nursed,
That's all we have to boast.

The little infant that is born,
Comes naked in the world forlorn,
Requires another's aid;

Then, surely, man need not be proud,

He has nought to boast from birth to shroud, This ne'er can be gainsayed.

Birds and beasts, both tame and wild,
Are not so helpless as a child

;

Proud man, remember this!
Ye should be taught in early days,
It's not thy clothing, but thy ways
Will lead thee at last to bliss.

Youth.

How shall I state the age called youth? When he is old enough to know, for truth, Which way is right or wrong?

Is it at eight? is it at ten?

Or older? still that he can tell to men,
Amidst a judging throng.

That what he hears he understands,
Can tell the meaning and demands,
Or the nature of an oath;
Has sense enough to answer true,
Any question that is put by you,
To speak is nothing loath.

Boys sometimes, when they are young,
Forget to curb the lips, the tongue,
To this all will not agree;

But if right in early youth, they sow
Good ways, in time are sure to grow,
Which will a blessing be.