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WISDOM AND FOLLY.

On folly's lips eternal talkings dwell;
Wisdom speaks little, but that little well;
So lengthening shades the sun's decline betray,
But shorter shadows mark meridian day.

Bishop.

Content.

Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content,—

The quiet mind is richer than a crown:

Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent,—

The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown.

Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,

Beggars enjoy when princes oft do miss.

The homely house that harbours quiet rest,

The cottage that affords no pride nor care,

The mean, that grees with country music best,

The sweet consort of Mirth's and Music's fare.

Obscured life sits down a type of bliss;

A mind content both crown and kingdom is.

Robert Greene.

Duty by habit is to pleasure turn'd:
He is content who to obey has learn'd.

Sir E. Bridges.

Lastly, stood War, in glittering arms yclad,
Writh visage grim, stern look, and blackly hued;
In his right hand a naked sword he had,
That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued;
And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rued),
Famine and fire he held, and there withal,
He razed towns, and threw down towers and all.
Cities he sack'd, and realms (that whilolm flower'd
In honour, glory, and rule above the rest),
He overwhelm'd, and all their fame devour'd,
Consumed, destroy'd, wasted and never ceased
Till he their wealth, their name, and all oppress'd;
His face forehew'd with wounds, and by his side
There hung his targe, with gashes deep and wide.

Sackville.

Alas! delicious Spring, God sends thee down

To breathe upon his cold and perish-d works.

Beauteous revival: earth should welcome thee—

Thee and the west wind, thy smooth paramour,

With the soft laughter of her flowery meads,

Her joys, her melodies: the prancing stag

Flutters the shivering fern: the steed shakes out

His mane, the dewy herbage, silver-webb'd,

With frank step trampling: the wild goat looks down

From his empurpling bed of heath, where break

The waters deep and blue, with crystal gleams

Of their quick-leaping people: the fresh lark

Is in the morning sky: the nightingale

Tunes evensong to the dropping waterfall.

Creation lives with loveliness—all melts

And trembles into one wild harmony.

MlLMAN.

THE MOUNTAIN ASH.

The mountain ash
No eye can overlook, when mid a grove
Of yet unfaded trees she lifts her head
Deck'd with autumnal berries, that outshine
Spring's richest blossoms; and ye may have mark'd
By a lirook side or solitary turn,
How she her station doth adorn ;—the pool
Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks
Are brighten'd round her.

WOEDSWOETH.

MOONLIGHT.

'Tis midnight: on the mountains brown
The cold round moon shines deeply down:
Blue roll the waters, blue the sky
Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light
So wildly, spiritually bright:
Who ever gazed upon them shining,
And turn'd to earth without repining,
Nor wish'd for wings to flee away,
And mix with their eternal ray?

Byrox.

ADAM'S FIRST FEELINGS.
A passage in Milton's Paradise Lost.

For man to tell how human life began

Is hard; for who himself beginning knew?

As new-wak'd from soundest sleep Soft on the flowery herb I found me laid In balmy sweat, which with his beams the sun Soon dried, and on the reeking moisture fed: Straight toward heaven my wondering eyes I turn'd, And gazed awhile on the ample sky, till raised By quick instinctive motion up I sprung, As thitherward endeavouring, and upright Stood on my feet; about me round I saw Hill, dale, and shady woods, and sunny plains, And liquid lapse of murm'ring streams; by these Creatures that lived and moved, or walk'd, or flew, Birds on the branches warbling: all things smiled, With fragrance, and with joy my heart o'erflow'd; Myself I then perus'd, and limb by limb Survey'd, and sometimes went and sometimes ran With supple joints, as lively vigour led; But who I was, or where, or from what cause, Knew not: to speak I tried, and forthwith spake; My tongue obey'd, and readily could name Whate'er I saw. Thou Sun, said I, fair light, And thou enlighten'd Earth, so fresh and gay, Ye hills, and dales, ye rivers, woods, and plains, And ye that live and move, fair creatures tell, Tell, if ye saw, how came I thus, how here? Not of myself; by some great Maker then, In goodness and in power pre-eminent: Tell me, how may I know Him, how adore From whom I have, that thus I move and live, And feel that I am happier than I know? While thus I call'd, and stray'd, I knew not whither, From where I first drew air, and first beheld This happy light, when answer none return'd, On a green shady bank profuse of flowers, Pensive I sat me down: there gentle sleep First found me, and with soft oppression seized

My drowsed sense, untroubled, though I thought
I then was passing to my former state
Insensible, and forthwith to dissolve:
When suddenly stood at my head a Dream,
Whose inward apparition gently moved
My fancy to believe I yet had being,
And lived: one came, methought, of shape divine,
And said, thy mansion wants thee, Adam, rise.

THE BREEZE IN THE CHURCH.

This beautiful little poem is from a volume recently published by Mrs. HiNXMAit, entitled Poems.

'twas a sunny day, and the morning psalm

We sang in the church together;
We felt in our hearts the joy and calm

Of the calm and joyous weather.

The slow, and sweet, and sacred strain,

Through every bosom stealing,
Check'd every thought that was light and vain,

And waked each holy feeling.

We knew by its sunny gleam how clear

Was the blue sky smiling o'er us,
And in every pause of the hymn could hear

The wild birds happy chorus.

And lo! from its haunts by cave or rill

With a sudden start awaking,
A breeze came fluttering down the hill,

Its fragrant pinions shaking.

Through the open windows it bent its way,

And down the chancel's centre,
Like a privileged thing that at will might stray,

And in holy places enter.

From niche to niche, from nook to nook,

With a lightsome rustle flying,
It lifted the leaves of the Holy Book,

On the altar-cushion lying.

It fann'd the old clerk's hoary hair,
And the children's bright young faces;

Then vanish'd, none knew how or where,
Leaving its pleasant traces.

It left sweet thoughts of summer hours

Spent on the quiet mountains; And the church seem'd full of the scent of flowers,

And the trickling fall of fountains.

The image of scenes so still and fair

With our music sweetly blended, While it seemed their whisper'd hymn took share

In the praise that to heaven ascended.

We thought of Him who had pour'd the rills,
And thro' the green mountains led them,

Whose hand, when He piled the enduring hills,
With a mantle of beauty spread them.

And a purer passion was borne above,

In a louder anthem swelling,
As we bow'd to the visible spirit of love,

On those calm summits dwelling.

SONG OF THE WOOD NYMPHS.
By Barry Cornwall.

Come here, come here and dwell

In forest deep!
Come here, come here and tell

Why thou dost weep!
Is it for love (sweet pain !)
That thus thou dar'st complain
Unto our pleasant shades, our summer leaves,
Where nought else grieves?

Come here, come here, and lie

By whispering stream! Here no one dares to die

For Love's sweet dream;

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