calm

There Health, through whose
The temp'rate joys in even tide,
That rarely ebb or flow;
And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild unvarying cheek

To meet the offer'd blow.

Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage

With settled smiles to meet;
Inur'd to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek submitted head,
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.

But thou, O Nymph, retir'd and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy
To tell thy tender tale?
The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss-rose and violet blossom round,

And lily of the vale. .

O say what soft propitious hour
I best may choose to hail thy pow'r,
And court thy gentle sway?
When Autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,

And shed thy milder day :
When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,

And every storm is laid;

If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice,

Low whisp'ring through the shade. 632. To Wisdom. MRS. BARBAULD. O WISDOM, if thy soft control Can sooth the sickness of the soul, Can bid the warring passions cease, And breathe the calm of tender peace: Wisdom! I bless thy gentle sway, And ever, ever will obey.

But if thou com'st with frown austere
To nurse the brood of care and fear;
To bid our sweetest passions die,
And leave us in their room a sigh;
Or if thine aspect stern have pow'r

To wither each poor transient flow'r
That cheers this pilgrimage of woe,

Dim backward as I cast my view,
What sick'ning scenes appear?

What sorrows yet may pierce me through,
Too justly I may fear!

Still caring, despairing

Must be my bitter doom;

My woes here shall close ne'er,
But with the closing tomb!
Happy! ye sons of busy life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife,

No other view regard!

Ev'n when the wished end's denied,
Yet while the busy means are plied,
They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight,
Unfitted with an aim,

Meet ev'ry sad returning night
And joyless morn the same.
You, bustling and justling,
Forget each grief and pain;
I, listless yet restless,

Find ev'ry prospect vain.
How blest the Solitary's lot,
Who all-forgetting, all-forgot,
Within his humble cell,
The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits,
Beside his crystal well!

Or haply to his ev'ning thought,
By unfrequented stream,

The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint-collected dream:

While praising, and raising

His thoughts to Heav'n on high,
As wand'ring, meand'ring,

He views the solemn sky.

Than I, no lonely Hermit plac'd
Where never human footstep trac'd,
Less fit to play the part,

The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop and just to move,
With self-respecting art:

Wisdom, thine empire I disclaim,
Thou empty boast of pompous name!
In gloomy shade of cloisters dwell,
But never haunt my cheerful cell.
Hail to pleasure's frolic train!
Hail to fancy's golden reign!
Festive mirth and laughter wild,
Free and sportful as the child!
Hope with eager sparkling eyes,
And easy faith and fond surprise!
Let these, in fairy colors drest,
For ever share my careless breast:
Then, tho' wise I may not be,
The wise themselves shall envy me.

33. Despondency. An Ode, BURNS. OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress'd with care, A burden more than I can bear,

Which I too keenly taste,
The Solitary can despise,
Can want, and yet be blest!
He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate!
Whilst I here, must cry here,
At perfidy ingrate!

Oh! enviable early days,

When dancing thoughtless Pleasure's maze,
To Care, to Guilt unknown!
How ill exchang'd for riper times,
To feel the follies or the crimes
Of others, or my own!

Ye tiny elves, that guiltless sport
Like linnets in the bush,
Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish!
The losses, the crosses,

'See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,

So abject, mean and vile,

Made fields and forests bare,

One evening, as I wandered forth

Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man, whose aged step
Seem'd weary worn with care;

His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

'Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?' Began the reverend sage;

'Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage?

Or, haply, press'd with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man.

"The Sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride;
I've seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return;
And every time has added proofs
That man was made to mourn.
'O man! while in thy early years
How prodigal of time!
Mis-spending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway!
Licentious passions burn;
Which tenfold force gives nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.
'Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right:
But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn;
Then age and want, O ill-match'd pair!
Show man was made to mourn.

'A few seem favorites of fate,

In pleasure's lap caress'd;
Yet, think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly bless'd.
But, oh! what crowds in ev'ry land,
Are wretched and forlorn!
Through weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.
'Many and sharp the numerous ills
Inwoven with our frame;
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame ;
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,
By Nature's law design'd,
Why was an independent wish

E'er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty or scorn?

Or why has man the will and pow'r
To make his fellow mourn?
'Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of human kind
Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressed, honest man,

Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn!

O death! the poor man's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my aged limbs

Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn:
But, oh! a bless'd relief to those
That weary-laden mourn!'

$35. The Frailty and Folly of Man. PRIOR. GREAT Heav'n! how frail thy creature Man is made!

How by himself insensibly betray'd!
In our own strength unhappily secure,
Too little cautious of the adverse pow'r ;
And, by the blast of self-opinion mov'd,
We wish to charm, and seek to be belov'd.
On pleasure's flow'ry brink we idly stray,
Masters as yet of our returning way:
Seeing no danger we disarm our mind,
And give our conduct to the waves and wind:
Then in the flow'ry mead, or verdant shade,
To wanton dalliance negligently laid,
We weave the chaplet, and we crown the
And smiling see the nearer waters roll; [bowl,
Till the strong gusts of raging passion rise,
Till the dire tempest mingles earth and skies;
And, swift into the boundless ocean borne,
Our foolish confidence too late we mourn :
Round our devoted heads the billows beat;
And from our troubled view the lessen'd lands
retreat.

36. Charity: A Paraphrase on 1 Cor. XIII. PRIOR.

DID Sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue
Than ever man pronounc'd or angel sung;
Had I all knowledge, human and divine,
That thought can reach or science can define

That man's but a picture of what I might be But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, [reading!" Who taught me betimes to love working and 39. The Rose. WATTS.

And for winter they lay up their stores : They manage their work in such regular forms, One would think they foresaw all the frosts and the storms,

And so brought their food within doors But I have less sense than a poor creeping [want,

ant,

Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flow'rs of the field:
When its leaves are all dead, and fine colors
are lost,

Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!

If I trifle away all their prime ! [days, Now, now, while my strength and my youth are in bloom, [shall come, Let me think what will serve me when sickness And pray that my sins be forgiven :

Let me read in good books, and believe and obey, [of clay,

rose;

But all our fond care to preserve them is vain; Time kills them as fast as he goes

Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty,

Since both of them wither and fade; But gain a good name by well doing my duty This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.

§ 40. The Rose. COWPER.

THE rose had been washed, just washed in a
Which Mary to Anna conveyed, [shower,
The plentiful moisture incumbered the flower,
And weigh'd down its beautiful head.
The cup was all filled, and the leaves were
And it seemed, to a fanciful view, [all wet;
To weep for the buds it had left with regret,
On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas! I snapped it, it fell to the ground. And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind, Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to sorrow resigned.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloom'd with its owner a while, And the tear, that is wiped with a little address, May be followed perhaps by a smile. § 41. The Ant, or Emmet. WATTS. THESE emmets, how little they are in our eyes! [dies,

We tread them to dust and a troop of them Without our regard or concern:

Yet as wise as we are, if we went to their school,

There's many a sluggard, and many a fool,
Some lessons of wisdom might learn.

§ 42. A Summer Evening. WATTS. How fine has the day been, how bright was

the sun.

How lovely and joyful the course that he run, Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun,

And there followed some droppings of rain! But now the fair traveller's come to the west, His rays all are gold, and his beauties are best; He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest, And foretels a bright rising again. Just such is the Christian: his course he begins, Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for his sins, [shines, And melts into tears; then he breaks out and And travels his heavenly way:

But, when he comes nearer to finish his race Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace And gives a sure hope at the end of his days Of rising in brighter array!

§ 43. Cupio dissolvi. HABINGTON. THE Soul, which doth with God unite, Those gaieties how doth she slight

Which o'er opinion sway!
Like sacred virgin wax, which shines
On altars, or on martyrs' shrines,
How doth she burn away!
How violent are her throes, till she
From envious earth deliver'd be,

Which doth her flight restrain!
How doth she dote on whips and racks,
On fires, and the so dreaded axe,
And ev'ry murd'ring pain!
How soon she leaves the pride of wealth
The flatteries of youth and health,

And fame's more precious breath;
And ev'ry gaudy circumstance,
That doth the pomp of life advance,
At the approach of death?

Placing all knowledge there:
And lovers in their mistress' eyes
Contract those wonders of the skies,
And seek no higher sphere.
The wand'ring pilot sweats to find
The causes that produce the wind
Still gazing on the pole :
The politician scorns all art,
But what doth pride and pow'r impart,
And swells th' ambitious soul.

But he whom heavenly fire doth warm
And 'gainst these potent follies arm,
Doth soberly disdain

All these fond human mysteries,
As the deceitful and unwise
Distempers of our brain.

He, as a burden, bears his clay,
Yet vainly throws it not away
On ev'ry idle cause:

But with the same untroubled eye
Can or resolve to live or die,

Regardless of th' applause.

My God! if 'tis thy great decree
That this must the last moment be

Wherein I breathe this air;

My heart obeys, joy'd to retreat
From the false favours of the great
And treach'ry of the fair.

When thou shalt please this soul t' enthrone
Above impure corruption;

What should I grieve or fear,
To think this breathless body must
Become a loathsome heap of dust,
And ne'er again appear?

For in the fire when ore is tried,
And by that torment purified,

Do we deplore the loss?
And when thou shalt my soul refine,
That it thereby may purer shine,
Shall I grieve for the dross?

§ 44. Meditation on Death. Lansdowne.
ENOUGH, enough, my soul, of woridly noise,
Of airy pomps, and fleeting joys;
What doth this busy world provide at best
But brittle goods, that break like glass,
But poison'd sweets, a troubled feast,
And pleasures like the winds, that in a mo-
ment pass?

Thy thoughts to nobler meditations give,
And study how to die, not how to live.

How frail is beauty! Ah, how vain,

And how short-liv'd those glories are, That vex our nights and days with pain, And break our hearts with care! In dust we no distinction see, Such Helen is; such, Myra, thou must be. How short is life! why will vain courtiers toil, And crowd a vainer monarch, for a smile? What is that monarch, but a mortal man, His crown a pageant, and his life a span?

With all his guards, and his dominions, he
Must sicken too, and die as well as we.
Those boasted names of conquerors and kings
Are swallow'd and become forgotten things;
One destin'd period men in common have,
The great, the base, the coward, and the
brave,
[grave:
All food alike for worms, companions in the
The prince and parasite together lie,

No fortune can exalt, but death will climb as high.

45. The Nunc Dimittis. MERRICK. "Tis enough-the hour is come: Now within the silent tomb Let this mortal frame decay, Mingled with its kindred clay; Since thy mercies, oft of old By thy chosen seers foretold, Faithful now and steadfast prove, God of truth, and God of love! Since at length my aged eye Sees the day spring from on high, Sun of righteousness, to thee, Lo! the nations bow the knee; And the realms of distant kings, Own the healing of thy wings. Those whom death had overspread With his dark and dreary shade, Lift their eyes, and from afar Hail the light of Jacob's Star; Waiting till the promis'd ray Turn their darkness into day. See the beams intensely shed, Shine o'er Sion's favor'd head! Never may they hence remove, God of truth and God of love!

46. The Benedicite paraphrased.

MERRICK,

YE works of God, on him alone,
In earth his footstool, heav'n his throne,
Be all your praise bestow'd ;
Whose eye the finish'd work survey'd,
Whose hand the beauteous fabric made,

And saw that all was good

Ye angels, that with loud acclaim
Admiring view'd the new-born frame,

And hail'd the Eternal King,
Again proclaim your Maker's praise,
Again your thankful voices raise,

And touch the tuneful string.

Praise him, ye blest ethereal plains,
Where, in full majesty, he deigns
To fix his awful throne:
Ye waters that above him roll,
From orb to orb, from pole to pole,
O make his praises known!
Ye thrones, dominions, virtues, pow'rs,
Join ye your joyful songs with ours;
With us your voices raise !