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COATES KINNEY.

CAROLINE SPENCER,

I remember that I loved her as I ne'er may love and cool their water is, – yea, cool and sweet;again,

But you must come to draw. And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter They hoard not, yet they rest in calm content, of the rain.

And not unsought will give;

They can be quiet with their wealth unspent, There is naught in art's bravuras that can work

So self-contained they live. with such a spell, In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, whence the And there are some like springs, that bubbling holy passions swell,

burst As that melody of nature, that subdued, sub

To follow dusty ways, duing strain,

And run with offered cup to quench his thirst Which is played upon the shingles by the patter

Where the tired traveller strays; of the rain.

That never ask the meadows if they want

What is their joy to give ;-
Unasked, their lives to other life they grant,

So self-bestowed they live !
THE EVENING CLOUD.

And ONE is like the ocean, deep and wide,
A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,

Wherein all waters fall ; A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; That girdles the broad earth, and draws the tide, Long had I watched the glory moving on

Feeding and bearing all ; O'er the still radiance of the lake below. That broods the mists, that sends the clouds Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow!

abroad, Even in its very motion there was rest;

That takes, again to give ; While every breath of eve that chanced to blow Even the great and loving heart of God, Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west.

Whereby all love doth live.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul !

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onwards to the golden gates of heaven,

FREEDOM IN DRESS.
Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
JOHN WILSON. As you were going to a feast;

Still to be powdered, still perfumed,

Lady, it is to be presumed,
INSIGNIFICANT EXISTENCE.

Though art's hid causes are not found,
THERE are a number of us creep

All is not sweet, all is not sound. Into this world, to eat and sleep;

Give me a look, give me a face, And know no reason why we 're born,

That makes simplicity a grace ; But only to consume the corn,

Robes loosely flowing, hair as free, Devour the cattle, fowl, and fish,

Such sweet neglect more taketh me And leave behind an empty dish.

Than all the adulteries of art ; The crows and ravens do the same,

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. Unlucky birds of hateful name ;

BEN JONSON. Ravens or crows might fill their place, And swallow corn and carcasses, Then if their tombstone, when they die,

A SWEET DISORDER IN THE DRESS Be n't taught to flatter and to lie, There's nothing better will be said

A SWEET disorder in the dress Than that “they 've eat up all their bread,

Kindles in clothes a wantonness :
Drunk up their drink, and gone to bed."

A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction ;

An erring lace, which here and there
LIVING WATERS.

Inthralls the crimson stomacher ;

A cuff neglectful, and thereby THERE are some hearts like wells, green-mossed

Ribbons to flow confusedly ;
and deep

A winning wave, deserving note,
As ever Summer saw;

In the tempestuous petticoat;

ISAAC WATTS.

FROM

WILLIAM COWPER.

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie Asseveration blustering in your face
I see a wild civility,

Makes contradiction such a hopeless case;
Do more bewitch me than when art In every tale they tell, or false or true,
Is too precise in every part.

Well known, or such as no mån ever knew,
ROBERT HERRICK. They fix attention, heedless of your pain,

With oaths like rivets forced into the brain ;

And even when sober truth prevails throughout, CONTRADICTION.

They swear it, till affirmance breeds a doubt. CONVERSATION."

A Persian, humble servant of the sun,

Who, though devout, yet bigotry had none, Ye powers who rule the tongue, if such there

Hearing a lawyer, grave in his address, are,

With adjurations every word impress, And make colloquial happiness your care,

Supposed the man a bishop, or, at least, Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate,

God's name so much upon his lips, a priest ; A duel in the form of a debate.

Bowed at the close with all his graceful airs, The clash of arguments and jar of words,

And begged an interest in his frequent prayers.
Worse than the mortal blunt of rival swords,
Decide no question with their tedious length,
For opposition gives opinion strength.
Divert the champions prodigal of breath ;

FAME.
And put the peaceably disposed to death.
O, thwart me not, Sir Soph, at every turn,

FROM THE "ESSAY ON MAN."
Nor carp at every flaw you may discern !
Though syllogisms hang not on my tongue,

What's fame?-a fancied life in others' breath, I am not surely always in the wrong;

A thing beyond us, e'en before our death. 'T is hard if all is false that I advance,

Just what you hear, you have, and what's un. A fool must now and then be right by chance.

known Not that all freedom of dissent I blame; The same (my lord) if Tully's, or your own. No, – there I grant the privilege I claim. All that we feel of it begins and ends A disputable point is no man's ground;

In the small circle of our foes or friends; Rove where you please, 't is common all around. To all beside as much an empty shade Discourse may want an animated No,

A Eugene living as a Cæsar dead ; To brush the surface, and to make it flow; Alike or when or where they shone or shine, But still remember, if you mean to please, Or on the Rubicon, or on the Rhine. To press your point with modesty and ease. A wit 's a feather, and a chief a rod; The mark at which my juster aim I take, An honest man's the noblest work of God. Is contradiction for its own dear sake.

Fame but from death a villain's name can save, Set your opinion at whatever pitch,

As justice tears his body from the grave ; Knots and impediments make something hitch ; When what to oblivion better were resigned Adopt his own, 't is equally in vain,

Is hung on high, to poison half mankind. Your thread of argument is snapped again. All fame is foreign, but of true desert ; The wrangler, rather than accord with you, Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart: Will judge himself deceived and prove it too. One self-approving hour whole years outweighis Vociferated logic kills me quite,

Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas ;
A noisy man is always in the right.

And more true joy Marcellus exiled feels
I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair, Than Cæsar with a senate at his heels.
Fix on tlte wainscot a distressful stare,
And, when I hope his blunders are all out,
Reply discreetly, — To be sure - no doubt!

GREATNESS.

ALEXANDER POPE.

WILLIAM COWPER.

66

FROM

FROM THE "ESSAY ON MAN.
OATHS.

Honor and shame from no condition rise ;
CONVERSATION."

Act well your part, there all the honor lies. Oaths terminate, as Paul observes, all strife, Fortune in men has some small difference made, Some men have surely then a peaceful life. One flaunts in rags, one futters in brocade ; Whatever subject occupy discourse,

The cobbler aproned, and the parson gowned, The feats of Vestris, or the naval force,

The friar hooded, and the monarch crowned.

FROM THE

“What differ more (you cry) than crown and

REASON AND INSTINCT. cowl ?" I'll tell you, friend ! a wise man and a fool.

ESSAY ON MAN." You 'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk,

WHETHER with reason or with instinct blest, Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk, Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow ; To bliss alike by that direction tend,

Know all enjoy that power which suits them best; The rest is all but leather or prunella.

And find the means proportioned to their end. Stuck o'er with titles, and hung round with Say, where full instinct is the unerring guide,

strings, That thou mayst be by kings, or whores of kings; Reason, however able, cool at best,

What pope or council can they need beside ? Boast the pure blood of an illustrious race,

Cares not for service, or but serves when prest, In quiet flow from Lucrece to Lucrece;

Stays till we call, and then not often near; But by your fathers' worth if yours you rate,

But honest instinct comes a volunteer, Count me those only who were good and great.

Sure never to o'ershoot, but just to hit ; Go! if your ancient but ignoble blood

While still too wide or short is human wit, Has crept through scoundrels ever since the Sure by quick nature happiness to gain, flood.

Which he vier reason labors at in va Go! and pretend your family is young,

This too serves always, reason never long; Nor own your fathers have been fools so long.

One must go right, the other may go wrong. What can ennoble sots or slaves or cowards?

See then the acting and comparing powers Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards.

One in their nature, which are two in ours; Look next on greatness ! say where greatness and reason raise o'er instinct as you can, lies !

In this 't is God directs, in that 't is man. "Where, but among the heroes and the wise ?"

Who taught the nations of the field and wood Heroes are much the same, the point 's agreed,

To shun their poison and to choose their food ? From Macedonia's madman to the Swede ;

Prescient, the tides or tempests to withstand, The whole strange purpose of their lives, to find Build on the wave, or arch beneath the sand ! Or make an enemy of all mankind !

Who made the spider parallels design, Not one looks backward, onward still he goes,

Sure as De Moivre, without rule or line? Yet ne'er looks forward farther than his nose.

Who bid the stork, Columbus-like, explore No less alike the politic and wise ;

Heavens not his own, and worlds unknown before ? All sly slow things, with circumspective eyes : Who calls the council, states the certain day, Men in their loose unguarded hours they take,

Who forms the phalanx, and who points the way! Not that themselves are wise, but others weak. But grant that those can conquer, these can

cheat; 'T is phrase absurd to call a villain great : Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave,

ABUSE OF AUTHORITY.
Is but the more a fool, the more a knave.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE."
Who noble ends by noble means obtains,
Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains,

ISABEL.

Oh! it is excellent
Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous
Like Socrates, that man is great indeed. To use it like a giant.

Could great men thunder
As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet ;
For every pelting, petty officer

Would use his heaven for thunder, —
OPPORTUNITY.

Nothing but thunder. Merciful Heaven !

Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, FROM "JULIUS CÆSAR."

Split'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak, THERE is a tide in the affairs of men, Than the soft myrtle : but man, proud man ! Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune ; Drest in a little brief authority, Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Most ignorant of what he 's most assured, Is bound in shallows, and in miseries.

His glassy essence,

like an angry ape, On such a full sea are we now afloat;

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, And we must take the current when it serves,

As make the angels weer ; who, with our spleens, Or lose our ventures.

Would all themselves laugh mortal.

ALEXANDER POPE.

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FROM

ALEXANDER POPE,

CHAKESPEARE.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE SEASIDE WELL.

| When sore thy hand doth press, and waves of

thine "Waters flowed over mine head; then I said, I am cut off.”

Afflict me like a sea, — -LAM. iii. 54

Deep calling deep, — infuse from source divine ONE day I wandered where the salt sea-tide

Thy peace in me!
Backward had drawn its wave,

And when death's tide, as with a brimful cup, And found a spring as sweet as e'er hillside

Over my soul doth pour,
To wild flowers gave.

Let hope survive, - & well that springeth up Freshly it sparkled in the sun's bright look,

Forevermore!
And 'mid its pebbles strayed,
As if it thought to join a happy brook

Above my head the waves may come and go,
In some green glade.

Long brood the deluge dire, But soon the heavy sea's resistless swell

But life lies hidden in the depths below

Till waves retire, —
Came rolling in once more;
Spreading its bitter o'er the clear sweet well

Till death, that reigns with overflowing flood,
And pebbled shore.

At length withdraw its sway, Like a fair star thick buried in a cloud,

And life rise sparkling in the sight of God

And endless day..
Or life in the grave's gloom,
The well, enwrapped in a deep watery shroud,

Sunk to its tomb.

ANONYMOUS

As one who by the beach roams far and wide,

SCANDAL.
Remnant of wreck to save, .
Again I wandered when the salt sea-tide

FROM THE “ PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES."
Withdrew its wave.

CURSED be the verse, how well soe'er it flow, And there, unchanged, no taint in all its sweet, That tends to make one worthy man my foe, No anger in its tone,

Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear,
Still as it thought some happy brook to meet,

Or from the soft-eyed virgin steal a tear !
The spring flowed on.

But he who hurts a harmless neighbor's peace,

Insults fallen worth, or beauty in distress,
While waves of bitterness rolled o'er its head,

Who loves a lie, lame slander helps about,
Its heart had folded deep

Who writes a libel, or who copies out;
Within itself, and quiet fancies led,

That fop whose pride affects a patron's name, As in a sleep.

Yet absent wounds an author's honest fame : Till when the ocean loosed his heavy chain,

Who can your merit selfishly approve,
And gave it back to day,

And show the sense of it without the love ; Calmly it turned to its own life again

Who has the vanity to call you friend,
And gentle way.

Yet wants the honor, injured, to defend ;

Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say, Happy, I thought, that which can draw its life Deep from the nether springs,

| And, if he lie not, must at least betray ;

Who to the Dean and silver bell can swear, Safe 'neath the pressure, tranquil 'mid the strife, Of surface things.

| And sees at Canons what was never there ;

Who reads but with a lust to misapply,
Safe — for the sources of the nether springs
Up in the far hills lie;

Make satire a lampoon, and fiction lie ;
Calm - for the life its power and freshness

A lash like mine no honest man shall dread,

But all such babbling blockheads in his stead. brings Down from the sky.

ALEXANDER POPE.

So, should temptations threaten, and should sin

Roll in its whelming flood,
Make strong the fountain of thy grace within

PROFUSION.
My soul, O God !

TIMON.
If bitter scorn, and looks, once kind, grown
strange,

FROM "MORAL ESSAYS."
With crushing chillness fall,

At Timon's villa let us pass a day, From secret wells let sweetness rise, nor change Where all cry out, “What sums are thrown my heart to gall !

away !"

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