If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies,

And they are fools who roam.

The world hath nothing to bestow,
From our own selves our bliss must flow,
And that dear hut, our home.

Of rest was Noah's dove bereft,
When with impatient wing she left
That safe retreat, the ark ;
Giving her vain excursions o'er,
The disappointed bird once more
Explor'd the sacred bark.

Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers,
We, who improve his golden hours,

By sweet experience know,
That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives to the tender and the good,
A paradise below.

Our babes shall richest comfort bring;
If tutor'd right, they'll prove a spring
Whence pleasures ever rise;
We'll form their minds with studious care,
To all that's manly, good, and fair,
And train them for the skies.

While they our wisest hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, support our age,
And crown our hoary hairs;
They'll grow in virtue every day,
And thus our fondest loves repay,
And recompense our cares.

No borrow'd joys! they're all our own,
While to the world we live unknown,
Or by the world forgot:

Monarchs! we envy not your state,
We look with pity on the great,
And bless our humble lot.

Our portion is not large, indeed;
But then, how little do we need,
For nature's calls are few!

In this the art of living lies,

To want no more than may suffice,
And make that little do.

We'll therefore relish with content
Whate'er kind Providence has sent,
Nor aim beyond our power;
For, if our stock be very small,
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,
Nor lose the present hour.

To be resign'd when ills betide,
Patient when favours are denied,

And pleas'd with favours given;
Dear Cloe, this is wisdom's part,
This is that incense of the heart,
Whose fragrance smells to heaven.

We'll ask no long-protracted treat,
Since winter-life is seldom sweet;
But, when our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we'll arise,
Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes,
The relics of our store.

Thus hand in hand through life we'll go ;
Its checker'd paths of joy and woe
With cautious steps we'll tread;
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble, or a fear,
And mingle with the dead.

While conscience, like a faithful friend,
Shall through the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel whisper peace,

And smooth the bed of death.

WILLIAM MASON was born in 1725, at Kingston-upon-Hull; his father was a clergyman of the Established Church. He received his education at St. John's College, Cambridge; and, during his residence at the University, distinguished himself by a "Monody on the Death of Pope." This was soon followed by his poem of "Isis," and his tragedy of "Elfrida," written after the model of the Greek dramathe chorus being "formed by a train of British virgins." It was performed at Covent Garden, but with little success, in 1772. In 1774 he entered into holy orders, and was appointed one of the Chaplains to the King; afterwards he was presented to the valuable living of Aston, and subsequently to the precentorship of York. His odes, his elegies that, especially, addressed to a young nobleman on leaving the University his other and more celebrated drama, "Caractacus," and the "English Garden," the longest of his works, established his reputation, and his claim to rank high among the poets of the age in which he lived. He died in 1797.

His friendship with Gray commenced early, and continued without interruption until the death of the more highly-gifted bard, whose books and manuscripts he inherited, and to whom was assigned the task of committing his memoirs and letters to the press. Gray pictured Mason, when a young man, as "of much fancy, little judgment, and a good deal of modesty; in simplicity a child, a little vain, but sincere, inoffensive, and indolent." In mature age he is described as an exemplary clergyman, an accomplished scholar, and an enlightened companion; of manners somewhat formal and austere, and as exciting awe rather than affection. One of his contemporaries characterised him as "a buckram man." In politics he was a Whig of the old school, and was among the earliest of our writers who execrated the slave-trade.

The merit of Mason, as a poet, is universally acknowledged; he excelled also in the sister arts; wrote a critical essay on church music; and composed several devotional pieces for the choir of York cathedral. His remarks on painting exhibit taste and judgment, and show that he might not altogether in vain have striven

"To snatch a double wreath

From Fame's unfading laurels."

That he had indeed the "poet's feeling and the painter's eye" is evident; and it is obvious that he knew how valuable is the assistance which the one never fails to render to the other, when both look upon nature, and both possess

"The power to seize, select, and reunite

Her loveliest features."

The happy combination has produced its full effects in his poem of "The English Garden." This production was issued in four parts, at distant intervals. As a whole it is dull and tedious; but it abounds in passages so original and striking as to bear quotation as examples the most perfect in our language. Thus he speaks of Time, whose

"Gradual touch

Has mouldered into beauty many a tower
Which, when it frown'd with all its battlements,
Was only terrible."

The great defect of the poem is the want of that which the subject imperatively called for-simplicity-" divine Simplicity," whom the Poet invokes, and to whom he dedicates his "verse," but evidently without estimating her character or appreciating her qualities. The edition of 1796 contains an ample commentary on the four books, by Dr. Burgh; it is, for the most part, an assemblage of self-evident truths, and unnecessary as an appendage to the volume, inasmuch as those who read the poem will but little need the prose explanations of its meaning, and those who do not cultivate acquaintance with the Poet will not be very likely to court it with his prosaie friend. This work, however, is not considered the most beneficial to the fame of Mason; it is founded more upon his two tragedies and his odes. Of Gray he was a fervent admirer; and we do not overpraise him, if we say, that the mantle of the higher genius descended upon the compatriot he loved-at least, Mason is the last of our poets who successfully studied in the school of which Gray was the great master.

JEHOVAH breaks th' Avenger's rod.

The Son of Wrath, whose ruthless hand
Hurl'd Desolation o'er the land,

Has run his raging race, has clos'd the scene of blood.
Chiefs arm'd around behold their vanquish'd Lord;
Nor spread the guardian shield, nor lift the loyal sword.

He falls; and earth again is free.
Hark! at the call of Liberty,

All Nature lifts the choral song.
The Fir-trees, on the mountain's head,
Rejoice thro' all their pomp of shade;
The lordly Cedars nod on sacred Lebanon:

B B

Has mouldered into beauty many a tower

Which, when it frown'd with all its battlements,
Was only terrible."

The great defect of the poem is the want of that which the subject imperatively called for-simplicity" divine Simplicity," whom the Poet invokes, and to whom he dedicates his "verse," but evidently without estimating her character or appreciating her qualities. The edition of 1796 contains an ample commentary on the four books, by Dr. Burgh; it is, for the most part, an assemblage of self-evident truths, and unnecessary as an appendage to the volume, inasmuch as those who read the poem will but little need the prose explanations of its meaning, and those who do not cultivate acquaintance with the Poet will not be very likely to court it with his prosaic friend. This work, however, is not considered the most beneficial to the fame of Mason; it is founded more upon his two tragedies and his odes. Of Gray he was a fervent admirer; and we do not overpraise him, if we say, that the mantle of the higher genius descended upon the compatriot he loved-at least, Mason is the last of our poets who successfully studied in the school of which Gray was the great master.