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Cleon is a slave to grandeur, free as thought am I Cleon fees a score of doctors, need of none have I ; Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, Cleon fears

to die; Death may come, he 'll find me ready, - happier

man am I.

I want a warm and faithful friend,

To cheer the adverse hour;

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We call that sickness which is health,

That persecution which is grace, That poverty which is true wealth,

And that dishonor which is praise.

Alas ! our time is here so short

That in what state soe'er 't is spent, Of joy or woe, does not import,

Provided it be innocent.

Titles and wealth are Fortune's toils,

Wherewith the vain themselves insnare: The great are proud of borrowed spoils,

The miser's plenty breeds his care. The one supinely yawns at rest,

The other eternally doth toil ; Each of them equally a beast,

A pampered horse, a laboring moil :
The titulado 's oft disgraced

By public hate or private frown,
And he whose hand the creature raised

Has yet a foot to kick him down.
The drudge who would all get, all save,

Like a brute beast, both feeds and lies; Prone to the earth, he digs his grave,

And in the very labor dies.

But we may make it pleasant too,

If we will take our measures right, And not what Heaven has done undo

By an unruly appetite.

The world is full of beaten roads,

But yet so slippery withal, That where one walks secure 't is odds

A hundred and a hundred fall.

Excess of ill-got, ill-kept pelf

Does only death and danger breed ; Whilst one rich worldling starves himself

With what would thousand others feed.

Untrodden paths are then the best,

Where the frequented are unsure; And he comes soonest to his rest

Whose journey has been most secure. It is content alone that makes

Our pilgrimage a pleasure here; And who buys sorrow cheapest takes

An ill commodity too dear.

By which we see that wealth and power,

Although they make men rich and great, The sweets of life do often sour,

And gull ambition with a cheat.





THE TOUCHSTONE. A MAN there came, whence none could tell, Bearing a Touclistone in his hand, and tested all things in the land

By its unerring spell.

A thousand transformations rose From fair to foul, from foul to fair: The golden crown he did not spare,

Nor scorn the beggar's clothes.

Of heirloom jewels, prized so much, Were many changed to chips and clods ; And even statues of the Gods

Crumbled beneath its touch.

Then angrily the people cried, “ The loss outweighs the profit far ; Our goods suffice us as they are :

We will not have them tried."

He is the happy man whose life even now Shows somewhat of that happier life to come ; Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state, Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose, Would make his fate his choice; whom peace,

the fruit Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one Content indeed to sojourn while he must Below the skies, but having there his home. The world o'erlooks him in her busy search Of objects, more illustrious in her view ; And, occupied as earnestly as she, Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world. She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them

not; He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain, He cannot skim the ground like summer birds Pursuing gilded flies ; and such he deems Her honors, her emoluments, her joys. Therefore in contemplation is his bliss, Whose power is such that whom she lifts from

earth She makes familiar with a heaven unseen, And shows him glories yet to be revealed. Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed, And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird That flutters least is longest on the wing.

And, since they could not so avail To check his unrelenting quest, They seized him, saying, “Let him test

How real is our jail !”

But though they slew him with the sword, And in a fire his Touchstone burned, Its doings could not be o'erturned,

Its undoings restored.

And when, to stop ail future harm, They strewed its ashes on the breeze, They little guessed each grain of these

Conveyed the perfect charm.






I LIKE a church ; I like a cowl ;
I love a prophet of the soul ;
And on my heart monastic aisles
Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles ;
Yet not for all his faith can see
Would I that cowled churchman be.
Why should the vest on him allure,
Which I could not on me endure ?


CYRIACK, this three years' day, these eyes, though

clear, To outward view, of blemish or of spot,

Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot : Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or sta”, throughout the year,

Or man or woman, yet I argue not

Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope ; but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied In Liberty's defence, my noble task, Of which all Europe rings from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's

vain mask, Content, though blind, had I no better guide.

Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought ; Never from lips of cunning fell The thrilling Delphic oracle : Out from the heart of nature rolled The burdens of the Bible old ; The litanies of nations came, Like the volcano's tongue of fame, Up from the burning core below, The canticles of love and woe.




The hand that rounded Peter's dome,
And groined the aisles of Christian Rome,
Wrought in a sad sincerity ;
Himself from God he could not free;
He builded better than he knew ;
The conscious stone to beauty grew.

O HAPPINESS! our being's end and aim ! Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content! whate'er thy

name :

Know'st thou what wove yon wood bird's nest Of leaves, and feathers from her breast ? Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, Painting with morn each annual cell ? Or how the sacred pine-tree adds To her old leaves new myriads ? Such and so grew these holy piles, Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, As the best gem upon her zone ; And Morning opes with haste her lids, To gaze upon the Pyramids ; O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, As on its friends, with kindred eye; For, out of Thought's interior sphere, These wonders rose to upper air ; And Nature gladly gave them place, Adopted them into her race, And granted them an equal date With Andes and with Ararat.

That something still which prompts the eternal

sigh, For which we bear to live or dare to die, Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies, O'erlooked, seen double, by the fool, and wise. Plant of celestial seed ! if dropped below, Say, in what mortal soil thon deign'st to grow ? Fair opening to some court's propitious shine, Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine? Twined with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield, Or reaped in iron arvests of the field ? Where grows ?- where grows it not? If vain

our toil, We ought to blame the culture, not the soil : Fixed to no spot is happiness sincere ; 'T is nowhere to be found, or everywhere : 'T is never to be bought, but always free, And, fled from monarchs, St. John! dwells with

thee. Ask of the learned the way? The learned are

blind; This bids to serve, and that to shun, mankind; Some place the bliss in action, some in ease, Those call it pleasure, and contentment these ; Some, sunk to beasts, find pleasure end in pain ; Some, swelled to gods, confess even virtue vain ; Or, indolent, to each extreme they fall, To trust in everything, or doubt of all.

Who thus define it, say they more or less Than this, that happiness is happiness?

Take Nature's path, and mad Opinion's leave; All states can reach it, and all heads conceive; Obvious her goods, in no extreme they dwell ; There needs but thinking right, and meaning

well; And, mourn our various portions as we please, Equal is common sense and common ease.

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These temples grew as grows


grass ; Art might obey, but not surpass. The passive Master lent his hand To the vast Soul that o'er him planned; And the same power that reared the shrine Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. Ever the fiery Pentecost Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chanting choirs, And through the priest the mind inspires. The word unto the prophet spoken Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; The word by seers or sibyls told, In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, Still Hoats upon the morning wind, Still whispers to the willing mind. One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost. I know what say the fathers wise, The Book itself before me lies, Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, And he who blent both in his line, The younger Golden Lips or mines, Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. His words are music in my ear, I see his cowled portrait dear ; And yet, for all his faith could see, I would not the good bishop be.



How happy is he born and taught

That serveth not another's will ; Whose arinor is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill !

Whose passions not his masters are ;

Whose soul is still prepared for death, Not tied unto the world with care

Of public fame or private breath ;


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