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GUY.

MORTAL mixed of middle clay, Attempered to the night and day, Interchangeable with things, Needs no amulets nor rings. Guy possessed the talisman That all things from him began; And as, of old, Polycrates Chained the sunshine and the breeze, So did Guy betimes discover Fortune was his guard and loverIn strange junctures felt, with awe, His own symmetry with law; So that no mixture could withstand The virtue of his lucky hand. He gold or jewel could not lose, Nor not receive his ample dues. In the street, if he turned round, His eye the eye 't was seeking found. It seemed his genius discreet Worked on the maker's own receipt, And made each tide and element Stewards of stipend and of rent; So that the common waters fell As costly wine into his well. He had so sped his wise affairs That he caught nature in his snares: Early or late, the falling rain Arrived in time to swell his grain; Stream could not so perversely wind But corn of Guy's was there to grind; The siroc found it on its way To speed his sails, to dry his hay; And the world's sun seemed to rise To drudge all day for Guy the wise. In his rich nurseries timely skill Strong crab with nobler blood did fill; The zephyr in his garden rolled From plum-trees vegetable gold; And all the hours of the year With their own harvest honored were. There was no frost but welcome came, Nor freshet, nor midsummer flame. Belonged to wind and world the toil And venture, and to Guy the oil.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

TEMPERANCE, OR THE CHEAP PHYSICIAN.

Go now! and with some daring drug
Bait thy disease; and, whilst they tug.
Thou, to maintain their precious strife,
Spend the dear treasures of thy life.
Go! take physic-dote upon
Some big-named composition,
The oraculous doctor's mystic bills-
Certain hard words made into pills;
And what at last shalt gain by these?
Only a costlier disease.

That which makes us have no need
Of physic, that's physic indeed.
Hark, hither, reader! wilt thou see
Nature her own physician be?
Wilt see a man all his own wealth,
His own music, his own health-
A man whose sober soul can tell
How to wear her garments well--
Her garments that upon her sit
As garments should do, close and fit-
A well-clothed soul that's not oppressed
Nor choked with what she should be dressed-
A soul sheathed in a crystal shrine,
Through which all her bright features shine:
As when a piece of wanton lawn,
A thin aerial veil, is drawn
O'er beauty's face, seeming to hide,
More sweetly shows the blushing bride-
A soul whose intellectual beams

No mists do mask, no lazy streams-
A happy soul, that all the way
To heaven hath a summer's day?
Would'st see a man whose well-warmed blood
Bathes him in a genuine flood?—

A man whose tuned humors be
A seat of rarest harmony?

Would'st see blithe looks, fresh cheeks, beguile

Age? Would'st see December smile?
Would'st see nests of new roses grow
In a bed of reverend snow?
Warm thoughts, free spirits flattering
Winter's self into a Spring?-
In sum, would'st see a man that can
Live to be old, and still a man?
Whose latest and most leaden hours
Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers:

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Fountain heads and pathless groves;
Places which pale passion loves;
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls;
A midnight bell, a parting groan-
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy
valley.

Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

ODE TO MELANCHOLY.

COME, let us set our careful breasts,
Like Philomel, against the thorn,
To aggravate the inward grief
That makes her accents so forlorn;
The world has many cruel points
Whereby our bosoms have been torn,
And there are dainty themes of grief,
In sadness to outlast the morn-
True honor's dearth, affection's death,
Neglectful pride, and cankering scorn,
With all the piteous tales that tears
Have watered since the world was born.

The world!-it is a wilderness,
Where tears are hung on every tree;
For thus my gloomy phantasy
Makes all things weep with me.
Come, let us sit and watch the sky,
And fancy clouds where no clouds be;
Grief is enough to blot the eye,
And make heaven black with misery.
Why should birds sing such merry notes,
Unless they were more blest than we?
No sorrow ever chokes their throats-
Except sweet nightingale; for she
Was born to pain our hearts the more,
With her sad melody.

Why shines the sun, except that he
Makes gloomy nooks for Grief to hide,
And pensive shades for melancholy,
When all the earth is bright beside?

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