Her birthday being celebrated thus,
Clio record how she hath been preserved―

Even in the gates of death, and from her youth-
To govern England in the ways of truth;
Record Heaven's goodness to this gracious Queen,
Whose virtue's peer what age hath ever seen?
To pass the story of her younger days,
And stormy tempest happily o'erblown,
Wherein by mercy and by miracle
She was rescued for England's happiness,
And comfort of the long-afflicted flock,

That stray'd like scatter'd sheep scared from the fold,
To slip remembrance of those careful days—
Days full of danger, happy days withal-
Days of her preservation and defence;
Behold the happiest day, the holiday,
That young and old and all do celebrate-
The day of joy, the day of jollity.

The best of all the days that we have seen
Was wherein she was crownèd England's Queen-
Elizabeth, anointed of the Highest

To sit upon her kingly father's seat.

In honour of this happy day, behold

How high and low, the young and old in years,
England hath put a face of gladness on,
And court and country carol in her praise,
And in her honour tune a thousand lays !

Behold in honour of this holiday

What peans loud triumphant London sings-
What holy tunes and sacrifice of thanks
England's metropolis as incense sends !

And in the sound of symbols, trumps, and shalms,
In honour of his noble mistress' name,

To whom his life he owes and offers up.

So, London's shepherd, guardian of his flock,
Praiseth the Mighty One of Israel,

And with the strings of his unfeigned heart,
Tunes his true joy for all those days of peace-
Those quiet days that Englishmen enjoy

Under our Queen, fair Queen of Brute's new Troy,
With whom in sympathy and sweet accord
All loyal subjects join, and hearts and hands
Lift up to Heaven's high throne, and sacrifice
Of praises and of hearty prayers send;
Thanksgiving for our blessings and the grace,
The gracious blessings on that day poured down
On England's head!

When Queen Elizabeth was entertained at Kenilworth by the Earl of Leicester, verses were "devised, penned, and pronounced by Master Gascoigne upon a very great sudden." One of these verses informed the queen

The winds resound your worth,

The rocks record your name,

These hills, these dales, these woods, these waves, These fields, pronounce your fame.

This great queen died in the seventieth year of her age and forty-fifth of her reign, on March 24, 1603, after replying to the Archbishop of Canterbury, when he advised her to fix her thoughts on God, that she did so; nor did her mind wander in the least from Him. It was well known that she died of excessive grief for having sent her favourite, the Earl of Essex, to the scaffold through the treachery of the Countess of Nottingham, who kept back the ring which Essex had entrusted to her to present to the queen on his behalf-that ring having

been presented by Elizabeth to Essex with an express promise that if, having offended her, he sent it back to her and asked for pardon, she would grant it. The ring was sent by Essex, but the queen never received it.

It is said in "The Book of Days," "The day of Elizabeth's death was the birthday of Sir Walter Raleigh's misfortunes, which terminated on the scaffold, October 29, 1618. The night before his death he wrote these lines, afterwards found on a fly-leaf of his bible :-

Even such is Time, which takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, and all we have,
And pays us nought but age and dust;
Which in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days!

And from which grave, and earth, and dust,
The Lord shall raise me up, I trust.

Spenser thus refers to Raleigh's strange reverses.
A prison for a court! an iron chain
For golden braveries! a chamber's span

For one whose very visions were of worlds.

Thy soul, O Ocean Shepherd, sure most be Freighted with good, since thou unmoved canst

steer

To such a dreaded haven as the grave!

About the age of sixty-four or sixty-five, the following birthday poem was written by Joanna Baillie, a worthy dramatist and lyrical poetess, of an age just passing away. She lived through a long and tranquil life, constantly in the society of the sister to whom this poem is addressed. They were

the daughters of a minister of Bothwell, on the Clyde, in Lanarkshire:

TO MISS AGNES BAILLIE

ON HER BIRTHDAY.

Dear Agnes, gleam'd with joy and dash'd with

tears,

O'er us have glided almost sixty years

Since we on Bothwell's bonny braes were seen By those whose eyes long closed in death have been

Two tiny imps who scarcely stooped to gather
The slender harebell on the purple heather,
No taller than the foxglove's spiky stem,
That dew of morning studs with silvery gem.
Then every butterfly that crossed our view
With joyful shout was greeted as it flew;
And moth, and lady-bird, and beetle bright,
In sheeny gold, were each a wondrous sight.
Then as we paddled barefoot, side by side,
Among the sunny shallows of the Clyde,
Minnows or spotted parr with twinkling fin,
Swimming in mazy rings the pool within,
A thrill of gladness through our bosoms sent,
Seen in the power of early wonderment.
A long perspective to my mind appears,
Looking behind me to that line of years;
And yet through every stage I still can trace
Thy vision'd form from childhood's morning
grace

To woman's early bloom-changing, how soon!
To the expressive glow of woman's noon;
And now to what thou art in comely age,
Active and ardent. Let what will engage
Thy present moment-whether hopeful seeds
In garden-plot thou sow, or noxious weeds

From the fair flower remove, or ancient lore
In chronicle or legend rare explore,

Or on the parlour hearth with kitten play,
Stroking its tabby sides, or take thy way
To gain with hasty steps some cottage door,
On helpful errand to the neighbouring poor;
Active and ardent, to my fancy's eye
Thou still art young in spite of time gone by.
Though oft of patience brief and temper keen,
Well may it please me in life's latter scene
To think what now thou art and long to me
hast been.

'Twas thou who woo'dst me first to look
Upon the page of printed book,

That thing by me abhorr'd, and with address
Didst win me from my thoughtless idleness,
When all too old become with bootless haste
In fitful sports the precious time to waste.
Thy love of tale and story was the stroke
At which my dormant fancy first awoke,
And ghosts and witches in my busy brain
Arose in sombre show, a motley train,
This new-found path attempting, proud was I
Lurking approval on thy face to spy,

Or hear thee say, as grew thy roused attention, "What! is this story all thine own invention?”

Then, as advancing through this mortal span,
Our intercourse with the mix'd world began;
Thy fairer face and sprightlier courtesy-
A truth that from my youthful vanity
Lay not conceal'd-did for the sisters twain,
Where'er we went the greater favour gain;
While, but for thee, vex'd with its tossing tide
I from the busy world had shrunk aside.