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BEAUTY.

PRELUDE TO THE VOICES OF THE

NIGHT.

'Tis much immortal beauty to admire,
But more immortal beauty to withstand ;
The perfect soul can overcome desire,
If beauty with divine delight be scanned.
For what is beauty but the blooming child
Of fair Olympus, that in night must end,
And be forever from that bliss exiled,
If admiration stand too much its friend ?
The wind may be enamored of a flower,
The ocean of the green and laughing shore,
The silver lightning of a lofty tower, —
But must not with too near a love adore ;
Or flower and margin and cloud-capped tower
Love and delight shall with delight devour !

LORD THURLOW.

THOUGHT.

THOUGHT is deeper than all speech,

Feeling deeper than all thought; Souls to souls can never teach

What unto themselves was taught. We are spirits clad in veils ;

Man by man was never seen; All our deep communing fails

To remove the shadowy screen. Heart to heart was never known;

Mind with mind did never meet ; We are columns left alone

Of a temple once complete. Like the stars that gem the sky,

Far apart though seeming near, In our light we scattered lie ;

All is thus but starlight here. What is social company

But a babbling summer stream ? What our wise philosophy

But the glancing of a dream ?

PLEASANT it was, when woods were green,

And winds were soft and low,
To lie amid some sylvan scene,
Where, the long drooping boughs between,
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen

Alternate come and go ;
Or where the denser grove receives

No sunlight from above,
But the dark foliage interweaves
In one un broken roof of leaves,
Underneath whose sloping eaves

The shadows hardly move.
Beneath some patriarchal tree

I lay upon the ground;
His hoary arms uplifted he,
And all the broad leaves over me
Clapped their little hands in glee,

With one continuous sound ;-
A slumberous sound, a sound that brings

The feelings of a dream,
As of innumerable wings,
As, when a bell no longer swings,
Faint the hollow murmur rings

O'er meadow, lake, and stream.
And dreams of that which cannot die,

Bright visions, came to me,
As lapped in thought I used to lie,
And gaze into the summer sky,
Where the sailing clouds went by,

Like ships upon the sea;
Dreams that the soul of youth engage

Ere Fancy has been quelled ;
Old legends of the monkish page,
Traditions of the saint and sage,
Tales that have the rime of age,

And chronicles of eld.

Only when the sun of love

Melts the scattered stars of thought, Only when we live above

What the dim-eyed world hath taught.

And, loving still these quaint old themes,

Even in the city's throng I feel the freshness of the streams That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, Water the green land of dreams, The holy land of song.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Only when our souls are fed

By the fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led

Which they never drew from earth, We, like parted drops of rain,

Swelling till they meet and run, Shall be all absorbed again, Melting, flowing into one.

CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH. I

THE INNER VISION. Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes To pace the ground, if path there be or none, While a fair region round the Traveller lies Which he forbears again to look upon ;

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THE WANTS OF MAN. “Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long." 'T is not with me exactly so ;

But 't is so in the song.
My wants are many and, if told,

Would muster many a score ;
And were each wish a mint of gold,

I still should long for more.

IMAGINATION.
FROM “MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM."
THESEUS. More strange than true: I never may

believe
These antique fables, nor these fairy toys.
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are of imagination all compact :
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold, —
That is, the madman; the lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt;
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to

heaven; And, as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name.

SHAKESPEARE.

What first I want is daily bread

And canvas-backs — and wine -
And all the realms of nature spread

Before me, when I dine.
Four courses scarcely can provide

My appetite to quell;
With four choice cooks from France beside,

To dress my dinner well.
What next I want, at princely cost,

Is elegant attire :
Black sable furs for winter's frost,

And silks for summer's fire,
And Cashmere shawls, and Brussels lace

My bosom's front to deck, -
And diamond rings my hands to grace,

And rubies for my neck. .
I want (who does not want?) a wife,

Affectionate and fair ;
To solace all the woes of life,

And all its joys to share.

CONTENTMENT.

I WEIGH not fortune's frown or smile ;

I joy not much in earthly joys; I seek not state, I reck not style ;

I am not fond of fancy's toys :

And close at hand is such a one,
In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me ;

Three courses are as good as ten ;If nature can subsist on three,

Thank Heaven for three. Amen! I always thought cold victual nice ;My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land ;

Give me a mortgage here and there, — Some good bank-stock, - some note of hand,

Or trifling railroad share, —
I only ask that Fortune send
A little more than I shall spend.

Of temper sweet, of yielding will,

Of firm, yet placid mind, —
With all my faults to love me still

With sentiment refined.
And as Time's car incessant runs,

And Fortune fills my store,
I want of daughters and of sons

From eight to half a score.
I want (alas ! can mortal dare

Such bliss on earth to crave ?)
That all the girls be chaste and fair, —

The boys all wise and brave.
I want a warm and faithful friend,

To cheer the adverse hour ;
Who ne'er to flatter will descend,

Nor bend the knee to power, – A friend to chide me when I'm wrong,

My inmost soul to see;
And that my friendship prove as strong

For him as his for me.
I want the seals of power and place,

The ensigns of command ;
Charged by the People's unbought grace

To rule my native land.
Nor crown nor sceptre would I ask

But from my country's will,
By day, by night, to ply the task

Her cup of bliss to fill.
I want the voice of honest praise

To follow me behind,
And to be thought in future days

The friend of human-kind,
That after ages, as they rise,

Exulting may proclaim
In choral union to the skies

Their blessings on my name.

Honors are silly toys, I know,

And titles are but empty names ; I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,

But only near St. James; I'm very sure I should not care To fill our Gubernator's chair.

Jewels are bawbles ; 't is a sin

To care for such unfruitful things; One good-sized diamond in a pin,

Some, not so large, in rings, A ruby, and a pearl or so, Will do for me ; - I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire ;

(Good heavy silks are never dear;) — I own perhaps I might desire

Some shawls of true Cashmere, Some marrowy crapes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

These are the Wants of mortal Man,

I cannot want them long,
For life itself is but a span,

And earthly bliss — a song.
My last great Want — absorbing all —

Is, when beneath the sod,
And summoned to my final call,
The Mercy of my God.

we JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. WASHINGTON, August 31, 1841.

I would not have the horse I drive

So fast that folks must stop and stare ; An easy gait, — two, forty-five, —

Suits me; I do not care ; —
Perhaps, for just a single spurt,
Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own

Titians and Raphaels three or four, I love so much their style and tone,

One Turner, and no more, (A landscape, - foreground golden dirt, The sunshine painted with a squirt.)

CONTENTMENT. "Man wants but little here below." LITTLE I ask ; my wants are few;

I only wish a hut of stone, (A very plain brown stone will do,)

That I may call my own ;

Of books but few, — some fifty score

For daily use, and bound for wear ; The rest upon an upper floor ;

Some little luxury there
Of red morocco's gilded gleam,
And vellum rich as country cream.

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And not what Heaven has done undo

THE PEASANT. By an unruly appetite.

FROM "THE PARISH REGISTER." The world is full of beaten roads,

A NOBLE peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. But yet so slippery withal,

Noble he was, contemning all things mean, That where one walks secure 't is odds His truth unquestioned and his soul serene. A hundred and a hundred fall.

Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid ;

At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed; Untrodden paths are then the best,

Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace; Where the frequented are unsure ;

Truth, simple truth, was written in his face ; And he comes soonest to his rest

Yet while the serious thought his soul approved, Whose journey has been most secure. Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved ;

To bliss domestic he his heart resigned, It is content alone that makes

| And with the firmest had the fondest mind; Our pilgrimage a pleasure here;

Were others joyful, he looked smiling on, And who buys sorrow cheapest takes And gave allowance where he needed none; An ill commodity too dear.

Good he refused with future ill to buy, CHARLES COTTON. Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh ;

A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast

No envy stung, no jealousy distressed ;
THE REAPER.

(Bane of the poor ! it wounds their weaker mind

To miss one favor which their neighbors find ;) BEHOLD her single in the field,

Yet far was he from Stoic pride removed ; Yon solitary Highland Lass !

He felt humanely, and he warmly loved.

I marked his action, when his infant died, Reaping and singing by herself ;

And his old neighbor for offence was tried ; Stop here, or gently pass !

The still tears, stealing down that furrowed cheek, Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain ;

Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak. O listen ! for the vale profound

If pride were his, 't was not their vulgar pride

Who in their base contempt the great deride; Is overflowing with the sound.

Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed, No nightingale did ever chaunt

If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed; More welcome notes to weary bands

Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew Of travellers in some shady haunt

None his superior, and his equals few ;Among Arabian sands; .

But if that spirit in his soul had place, No sweeter voice was ever heard

It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace ; In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,

A pride in honost fame, by virtue gained

In sturdy boys to virtuous labors trained ;
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Pride in the power that guards his country's coast,

And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast; Will no one tell me what she sings ?

Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied, — Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

In fact, a poble passion misnamed pride.
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago :
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?

THE HAPPY MAN.
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

FROM "THE WINTER WALK AT NOON." That has been, and may be again!

He is the happy man whose life even now Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang

Shows somewhat of that happier life to come ; As if her song could have no ending;

Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state, I saw her singing at her work,

Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose, And o'er the sickle bending ;

Would make his fate his choice ; whom peace, I listened till I had my fill;

the fruit And as I mounted up the hill

Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, The music in my heart I bore

Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one Long after it was heard no more.

Content indeed to sojourn while he must WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. | Below the skies, but having there his home.

GEORGE CRABBE.

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