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The world o'erlooks him in her busy search Obvious her goods, in no extreme they dwell ; Of objects, more illustrious in her view ; There needs but thinking right and meaning well; And, occupied as earnestly as she,
And mourn our various portions as we please,
A HAPPY LIFE.
How happy is he born and taught
Whose armor is his honest thought, And shows him glories yet to be revealed.
And simple truth his utmost skill ! Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed,
Whose passions not his masters are, And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams
Whose soul is still prepared for death, Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird
Not tied unto the world with care
Of public fame or private breath;
Or vice ; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise ; HAPPINESS.
Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; ESSAY ON MAN."
Who hath his life from rumors freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; O HAPPINESS ! our being's end and aim ! Good, pleasure, ease, content! whate'erthyname :
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make accusers great ; That something still which prompts the eternal sigh
Who God doth late and early pray For which we bear to live or dare to die,
More of his grace than gifts to lend ; Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies,
And entertains the harmless day O’erlooked, seen double, by the fool, and wise. With a well-chosen book or friend, Plant of celestial seed ! if dropped below, Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow ?
This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And, having nothing, yet hath all.
THE HERMIT. Fixed to no spot is happiness sincere,
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, *T is nowhere to be found, or everywhere :
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, 'T is never to be bought, but always free,
When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, And fled from monarchs, St. John ! dwells with
Andnaught but the nightingale's songin the grove, thee. Ask of the learned the way? The learned are "T was thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, blind ;
While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began;
No more with himself or with nature at war, This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind;
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man : Some place the bliss in action, soine in ease, Those call it pleasure, and contentment these ; “Ah ! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe, Some, suik to beasts, find pleasure end in pain; Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall ? Some, swelled to gods, confess even virtue vain! For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, Or, indolent, to each extreme they fall, -- And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthrall. To trust in everything, or doubt of all.
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay, Who thus define it, say they more or less Moumn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to Than this, that happiness is happiness ?
mourn ! Take nature's path, and mad opinion's leave ; 0,soothe him whose pleasures like thine pass away! All states can reach it, and all heads conceive ; Full quickly they pass, — but they never return.
SIR HENRY WOTTON.
And some to happy homes repair,
Where children, pressing cheek to cl With mute caresses shall declare
The tenderness they cannot speak. And some, who walk in calmness here,
Shall shudder as they reach the door Where one who made their dwelling d
Its flower, its light, is seen no more. Youth, with pale cheek and slender fri
And dreams of greatness in thine ey Go'st thou to build an early name,
Or early in the task to die ?
Who is now fluttering in thy snare ? Thy golden fortunes, tower they now,
Or melt the glittering spires in air ? Who of this crowd to-night shall tread
The dance till daylight gleam again Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead ?
Who writhe in throes of mortal pair Some, famine-struck, shall think how
The cold, dark hours, how slow the And some, who flaunt amid the throny
Shall hide in dens of shame to-night Each where his tasks or pleasures call,
They pass, and heed each other not. There is who heeds, who holds them al
In His large love and boundless tho These struggling tides of life, that seer
In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream
That rolls to its appointed end.
WILLIAM CULLEN E
FAREWELL, thou busy world, and may
We never meet again ; Here I can eat and sleep and pray, And do more good in one short day
Then he who his whole age outwears Upon the most conspicuous theatres, Where naught but vanity and vice arı
Good God! how sweet are all thing
How cleanly do we feed and lie
What peace, what unanimity! How innocent from the lewd fashion Is all our business, all our recreation.
“Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky, The moon,
half extinguished, her crescent displays; But lately I marked when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendor again! But man's faded glory what change shall renew ? Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain ! "'T is night, and the landscape is lovely no more. I mourn, -but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering
with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn, Kind nature the embryo blossoin will save ; But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? O, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave ? “ 'T was thus, by theglare of false science betrayed, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind, My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to
shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. *O pity, great Father of light,' then I cried, *Thy creature, who fain would not wander from
thee ! Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride ; From doubt and from darkness thou only canst
" And darkness and doubt are now flying away ;
blending; And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb."
THE CROWDED STREET.
Filled with an ever-shifting train,
The murmuring walks like autumn rain.
The mild, the fierce, the stony face,
Where secret tears have left their trace.
They pass — to toil, to strife, to rest ;
To halls in which the feast is spread ;
In silence sits beside the dead.
O, how happy here's our leisure !
Dear solitude, the soul's best friend,
With thee 1 here converse at will,
And would be glad to do so still,
Is it, alone
By none offended, and offending none! To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease ; And, pleasing a man's self, none othertodisplease.
O my beloved nymph, fair Dove,
Upon thy flowery banks to lie,
Playing at liberty,
The all of treachery
Are both too mean,
To vie priority;
How dearly do I love,
In the artificial night
Have I taken, do I take !
SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN ALEXANDER SELKIRK,
DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE
My right there is none to dispute ;
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
That sages have seen in thy face?
Than reign in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity's reach ;
I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain
My form with indifference see ; They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me. Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestowed upon man ! O, had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheered by the sallies of youth.
Religion ! what treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word ! More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford ;
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
MERCHANT OF VENICE."
The quality of mercy is not strained, And mercy - encouraging thought !
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Gives even affliction a grace,
Upon the place beneath : it is twice blesse And reconciles man to his lot.
It blesseth him that gives, and him that to
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kin
But mercy is above this sceptred sway, How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
Honor and wealth, with all his worth and pains ! It is an attribute to God himself ; It seems a story from the world of spirits
And earthly power doth then show likest When any man obtains that which he merits,
When mercy seasons justice. Or any merits that which he obtains.
For shame, my friend ! renounce this idle strain !
King Francis was a hearty king, and lo Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain ?
royal sport, Goodness and greatness are not means, but ends. And one day, as his lions fonght, sat lookii
the court. Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
The nobles filled the benches, with the lad The great good man? Three treasures, – fove,
their pride, and light,
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, And calm thoughts, equable as infant's breath ;
one for whoin he sighed : And three fast friends, more sure than day or And truly 't was a gallant thing to see night,
crowning show, Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.
Valor and love, and a king above, and the
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laugh- Who steals my purse, steals trash ; 't is someing jaws;
thing, nothing; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a’T was mine, 't is his, and has been slave to wind went with their paws ;
thousands; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled But he that filches from me my good name on one another,
Robs me of that which not enriches him, Tin all the pit with sand and mane was in a And makes me poor indeed.
thunderous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whisking
through the air ; Said Francis then, “Faith, gentlemen, we're
SLEEP. better here than there."
WEEP ye no more, sad fountains ! De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous
What need you flow so fast ? lively dame,
Look how the snowy mountains With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which Heaven's sun doth gently waste. always seemed the same ;
But my sun's heavenly eyes She thought, The Count my lover is brave as
View not your weeping, brave can be ;
That now lies sleeping He surely would do wondrous things to show his Softly, now softly lies love of me;
Sleeping King, ladies, lovers, all look on ; the occasion is divine;
Sleep is a reconciling, I'll drop my glove, to prove his love ; great glory
A rest that peace begets ; will be mine.
Doth not the sun rise smiling,
When fair at even he sets ? She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then
Rest you then, rest, sad eyes, looked at him and smiled;
Melt not in weeping, He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the
While she lies sleeping lions wild :
Softly, now softly lies The leap was quick, return was quick, he has re
JOHN DOWLAND gained his place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right
in the lady's face. “By Heaven," said Francis, “rightly done!”
INVOCATION TO SLEEP. and he rose from where he sat ; “No love," quoth he, “but vanity, sets love a
COME, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving task like that."
Lock me in delight awhile ;
feel an influence,
All my powers of care bereaving !
Though but a shadow, but a sliding,
Let me know some little joy ! To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
We that suffer long annoy To throw a perfume on the violet,
Are contented with a thought,
Through an idle fancy wrought :
0, let my joys have some abiding !
BEAUMONT and FLETCHER. Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess.
COME, Sleep, 0 Sleep, the certain knot of peace,