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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 ;
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice ; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise ; HAPPINESS.
Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; FROM THE “ESSAY ON man."
Who hath his life from rumors freed, O HAPPINESS ! our being's end and aim !
Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; Good, pleasure, case, content! whate'erthyname:
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make accusers great ; That something still which prompts the eternal
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
This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands; Twined with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield,
And, having nothing, yet hath all.
SIR HENRY WOTTON. Or reaped in iron harvests of the field ? Where grows? - where grows it not? If vain
our toil, We ought to blame the culture, not the soil :
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
| And naught but the nightingale'ssongin the grove, thee.
"T was thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, Ask of the learned the way? The learned are
| While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began; blind;
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, fome, sunk to beasts, find pleasure end in pain ; Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall ? ome, swelled to gods, confess even virtue vain ! For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, )r, indolent, to each extreme they fall, -- And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthrall. 'o 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 Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to 'han this, that happiness is happiness?
mourn ! Take nature's path, and mad opinion's leave ; 0,soothe him whose pleasures like thine pass away! Jll states cau reach it, and all heads conceive; Full quickly they pass, — but they never return. “Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky, 1 And some to happy homes repair, The moon, half extinguished, her crescent dis Where children, pressing cheek to cheek, plays;
With mute caresses shall declare
The tenderness they cannot speak.
And some, who walk in calmness here,
Shall shudder as they reach the door But man's faded glory what change shall renew ?
Where one who made their dwelling dear, Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain !
Its flower, its light, is seen no more. "'T is night, and the landscape is lovely no more.
Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, Imourn,--but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
And dreams of greatness in thine eye ! For morn is approaching your charms to restore,
Go'st thou to build an early name, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering
Or early in the task to die? with dew.
Keen son of trade, with eager brow! Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn, —
Who is now fluttering in thy snare ? Kind nature the embryo blossom will save;
Thy golden fortunes, tower they now, But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?
Or melt the glittering spires in air ? 0, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave ?
Who of this crowd to-night shall tread "'T was thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,
The dance till daylight gleam again ? That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind,
Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead ? My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to
Who writhe in throes of mortal pain ? shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. I Some, famine-struck, shall think how long O pity, great Father of light,' then I cried,
The cold, dark hours, how slow the light; • Thy creature, who fain would not wander from And some, who flaunt amid the throng, thee !
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 all
These struggling tides of life, that seem
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYAST.
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
Where naught but vanity and vice appears.
Good God! how sweet are all things here ! Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some
How beautiful the fields appear !
How cleanly do we feed and lie !
Lord ! what good hours do we keep!
How quietly we sleep!
What peace, what unanimity!
How innocent from the lewd fashion
Is all our business, all our recreation.
O, how happy here's our leisure !
E'en of my dearest friends, have I, 0, how innocent our pleasure !
In your recesses' friendly shade, O ye valleys ! O ye mountains!'
All my sorrows open laid, Oye groves and crystal fountains !
And my most secret woes intrusted to your How I love, at liberty,
privacy ! By turns to come and visit ye !
Lord ! would men let me alone, Dear solitude, the soul's best friend,
What an over-happy one That man acquainted with himself dost make,
Should I think myself to be, –
Might I in this desert place,
(Which most men in discourse disgrace,) And would be glad to do so still,
Live but undisturbed and free!
Would I, maugre winter's cold
And the summer's worst excess,
Try to live out to sixty full years old ;
And, all the while,
Without an envious eye
On any thriving under Fortune's smile, And, pleasinga man's self, none otherto displease.
Contented live, and then contented die. O my beloved nymph, fair Dove,
CHARLES COTTON. Princess of rivers, how I love
Upon thy flowery banks to lie, And view thy silver stream,
VERSES When gilded by a summer's beam!
SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, And in it all thy wanton fry
DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF Playing at liberty,
JUAN FERNANDEZ And with my angle upon them
· I am monarch of all I survey, The all of treachery
My right there is none to dispute ; I ever learned industriously to try!
From the centre all round to the sea, Such streains Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show, I am lord of the fowl and the brute. The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po;
O Solitude ! where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face?
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. Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoined, submit, |
The beasts that roain over the plain And lay their trophies at thy silver feet.
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, And from the vales to view the noble heights How soon would I taste you again! above!
My sorrows I then might assuage O my beloved caves ! from dog-star's heat,
In the ways of religion and truth, — And all anxieties, my safe retreat ;
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, To hide me from society
Or all that this earth can afford;
But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard, Never sighed at the sound of a knell,
Or smiled when a sabbath appeared.
Ye winds that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Of a land I shall visit no more!
A wish or a thought after me? 0, tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.
But for a thousand years
Their fruit appears,
Or healthful store.
Into still air they seem to fleet,
But they shall last, —
And we shall meet !
How fleet is a glance of the mind !
Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there ; But, alas! recollection at hand
Soon hurries me back to despair.
I charge thee by the years gone by,
Keep thou the one true way,
In work and play, Lest in that world their cry i Of woe thou hear.
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
FROM "MERCHANT OF Venice.”
The quality of mercy is not strained, -
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath : it is twice blessed, -
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes :
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings :
But mercy is above this sceptred sway, -
It is enthronéd in the hearts of kings,
And earthly power doth then show likest God's 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 !
tain? . Wealth, title, dignity, a golden chain, King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a 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 fought, sat looking on
the court. Hath he not always treasures, always friends. The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in The great good man? Three treasures, -Tove,
their pride, and light,
And ʼmongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with And calm thoughts, equable as infant's breath; I.
one for whom he sighed: And three fast friends, more sure than day or And truly 't was a gallant thing to see that night,
crowning show, Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. I beasts below,
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
Sleeping 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;
COME, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving "No love,” quoth he, “but vanity, sets love a task like that.”
Lock me in delight awhile ;
I may feel an influence,
All my powers of care bereaving!
Though but a shadow, but a sliding,
Let me know some little joy!
We that suffer long annoy
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,