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Who of this crowd to-night shall tread O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,

The dance till daylight gleam again? I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome; Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead? And when I am stretched beneath the pines, Who writhe in throes of mortal pain ? Where the evening star so holy shines,

I laugh at the lore and the pride of man, Some, famine-struck, shall think how long At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;

The cold dark hours, how slow the light; For what are they all, in their high conceit, And some, who flaunt amid the throng,

When man in the bush with God may meet? Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

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GUY.

TEMPERANCE, OR THE CHEAP PHY.

SICIAN.

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 bis 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.

RALPL WALDO EMERSON.

Go now! and with some daring drug
Bait thy disease; and, whilst they tag,
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, be-

guile
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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Methinks I hear, methinks I see,
Ghosts, goblins, fiends: my phantasie
Presents a thousand ugly shapes—
Headless bears,

black
men, and

apes ; Doleful outcries and fearful sights My sad and dismal soul affrights.

All my griefs to this are jolly;
None so damned as melancholy.

ROBERT BUBTOX.

HENCE ALL YOU VAIN DELIGHTS.

HENCE all yon vain delights,
As short as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,

But only melancholy;

O sweetest melancholy! Welcome folded arms and fixed eyes, A sigh that, piercing, mortifies, A look that's fastened to the ground, A tongue chained up without a sound!

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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