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If accident, if outward accident,

Could bend the man to unrestrained woe, We then should have an endless argument

Of all that to our life's delight is foe; Then toil upon the surging seas would prove,

And peril in sequestered ways, an ill Which man from off his ground of hope would

move, And, quenching reason, all endurance kill; Then poverty and sickness would conspire

Against th' abated wisdom of the soul; The loss of friends would poison our desire, And change of place our better sense con

trol. But so we mix our fancy with our woe, That abstract and pure grief we lose to know.

LORD THURLOW.

For if they could with patience
Awhile possess the mind,
By inward consolations
They might refreshing find,
To sweeten all their crosses
That little time they 'dure;
So might they gain by losses,
And sharp would sweet procure.

But if the mind

Be inclined
To unquietness,
That only may be called
The worst of all distress.

He that is melancholy, Detesting all delight, His wits by sottish folly Are ruinated quite.

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Sad discontent and murmurs
To him are incident;
Were he possessed of honors,
He could not be content.

Sparks of joy

Fly away;
Floods of care arise ;
And all delightful motion
In the conception dies.

A good that never satisfies the mind,
A beauty fading like the April showers,
A sweet with floods of gall that runs com-

bined,
A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,
A honor that more fickle is than wind,
A glory at opinion's frown that lowers,
A treasury which bankrupt time devours,
A knowledge than grave ignorance more

blind, A vain delight our equals to command, A style of greatness in effect a dream, A swelling thought of holding sea and land, A servile lot, decked with a pompous name: Are the strange ends we toil for here below Till wisest death makes us our errors know.

WILLIAN DeruMOND.

But those that are contented
However things do fall,
Much anguish is prevented,
And they soon freed from all.
They finish all their labors
With much felicity;
Their joy in trouble savors
Of perfect piety.

Cheerfulness

Doth express

A SWEET PASTORAL.

A settled pious mind,
Which is not prone to grudging,
From murmuring refined.

ANN COLLINS.

Good Muse, rock me asleep With some sweet harmony! The weary eye is not to keep Thy wary company.

SONNETS.

Sweet love, begone awhile! Thou know'st my heaviness; Beauty is born but to beguile My heart of happiness.

See how my little flock,
That loved to feed on high,
Do headlong tumble down the rock,
And in the valley die.

TRIUMPHING chariots, statues, crowns of bays, Sky-threatening arches, the rewards of worth; Books heavenly-wise in sweet harmonious

lays, Which men divine unto the world set forth; States which ambitious minds, in blood, do

raise From frozen Tanais unto sun-burnt Gange; Gigantic frames held wonders rarely strange, Like spiders' webs, are made the sport of days. Nothing is constant but in constant change, What's done still is undone, and when undone Into some other fashion doth it range; Thus goes the floating world beneath the

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moon:

Wherefore, my mind, above time, motion,

place, Rise up, and steps unknown to nature trace.

The flowers have had a frost; Each herb hath lost her savor; And Phillida, the fair, hath lost The comfort of her favor.

HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY.

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Now all these careful sights
So kill me in conceit,
That how to hope upon delights
Is but a mere deceit.

Why fear, and dream, and death, and

birth
Cast on the daylight of this earth

Such gloom; why man has such a scope
For love and hate, despondency and hope.

And, therefore, my sweet Muse,
Thou know'st what help is best;
Do now thy heavenly cunning use
To set my heart at rest.

And in a dream bewray
What fate shall be my friend-
Whether my life shall still decay,
Or when my sorrow end.

NICHOLAS BEETOX.

No yoice from some sublimer world hath ever

To sage or poet these responses given;
Therefore the names of demon, ghost, and

heaven,
Remain the records of their vain endeavor-
Frail spells, whose uttered charm might not

avail to sever
From all we hear and all we see

Doubt, chance, and mutability.
Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountains

driven,
Or music by the night wind sent
Through strings of some still instrument,

Or moonlight on a midnight stream, Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream.

HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY.

The awful shadow of some unseen power

Love, hope, and self-esteem, like clouds deFloats, though unseen, among us-visiting

part This various world with as inconstant wing

And come, for some uncertain moments As summer winds that creep from flower to

lent. flower;

Man were immortal and omnipotent Like moonbeams, that behind some piny

Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art, mountain shower,

Keep with thy glorious train firin state withIt visits with inconstant glance

in his heart. Each human heart and countenance,

Thou messenger of sympathies Like hues and harmonies of evening,

That wax and wane in lover's eyes ! Like clouds in starlight widely spread,

Thou that to human thought art nourishment, Like memory of music fled,

Like darkness to a dying flame! Like aught that for its grace may be

Depart not as thy shadow came! Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery.

Depart not, lest the grave should be,

Like life and fear, a dark reality. Spirit of beauty, that dost consecrate With thine own hues all thou dost shine While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped upon

Through many a listening chamber, cave Of human thought or form, where art thou

and ruin, gone ?

And starlight wood, with fearful steps purWhy dost thou pass away and leave our state,

suing This dim, vast vale of tears, vacant and deso- Hopes of high talk with the departed dead. late?

I called on poisonous names with which our Ask why the sunlight not for ever

youth is fed; Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain I was not heard; I saw them not. river;

When musing deeply on the lot Why aught should fail and fade that once is of life, at that sweet time when winds are shown;

wooing

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'T is loving and serving

The highest and best ! 'Tis onwards! unswervingAnd that is true rest.

JOHN SULLIVAN DWIGJIT.

The day becomes more solemn and serene

When noon is past; there is a harmony

In Autumn, and a lustre in its sky, Which through the summer is not heard nor

seen, As if it could not be, as if it had not been!

Thus let thy power, which like the truth

Of nature on my passive youth
Descended, to my onward life supply

Its calm-to one who worships thee,
And every form containing thee-

Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did bind
To fear himself, and love all human kind.

Percy BYSSIIE SIELLEY,

STANZAS.

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.

SWEET IS THE PLEASURE.

Sweet is the pleasure

Itself cannot spoil! Is not true leisure

One with true toil?

Heart to heart was never known;
Mind with mind did never meet;
We are colurons left alone
Of a temple once complete.

Thou that wouldst taste it,

Still do thy best; Use it, not waste it

Else 't is no rest.

Like the stars that gem the sky, Far apart though seeming near, In our light we scattered lie; All is thus but starlight here.

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She has a world of ready wealth,

Our minds and hearts to bless, Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

“No check, no stay, this streamlet fears;

How merrily it goes ! 'T will murmur on a thousand years,

And flow as now it flows.

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