Though our wise ones call thee madness,
Let me never taste of gladness

If I love not thy mad'st fits

. More than all their greatest wits.

And though some, too, seeming holy
Do account thy raptures folly,

Thou dost teach me to contemn

What makes knaves and fools of them.

To Nature

George Wither.

T may indeed be phantasy when I

Essay to draw from all created things

Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings;

And trace in leaves and flowers that round me lie

Lessons of love and earnest piety.

So let it be; and if the wide world rings
In mock of this belief, to me it brings

Nor fear, nor grief, nor vain perplexity.

So will I build my altar in the fields,

And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be,

And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields,
Shall be the incense I will yield to Thee,

Thee, only God: and Thou shalt not despise
Even me, the priest of this poor sacrifice.

Coleridge.

N

The Inspiration of Quiet

OT love, not war, nor the tumultuous swell
Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change,
Nor duty struggling with afflictions strange-
Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell:
But where untroubled peace and concord
dwell,

There also is the Muse not loth to range,
Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange,
Sky-ward ascending from a woody dell.
Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour,
And sage content, and placid melancholy:
She loves to gaze upon a crystal river—–
Diaphanous because it travels slowly;
Soft is the music that would charm for ever:
The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.

Wordsworth.

"The Man of Life Upright"

T

HE man of life upright,

Whose guiltlesse Hearte is free
From all dishonest deedes,

Or thought of Vanitie;

The man whose silent dayes,
In harmlesse Joys are spent,
Whome Hopes cannot delude
Nor Sorrow discontent;

That man needes neyther towres
Nor armour for defence,

Nor secret vaults to flie

From thunder's Violence;

He onely can behold

With unafrighted eyes
The horrours of the Deepe

And terrours of the Skies.

Thus, scorning all the cares
That Fate or Fortune brings,
He makes the Heav'n his booke,
His Wisedome heav'nly things;

Good Thoughts his onely friendes,
His Wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober Inne

And quiet Pilgrimage.

Thomas Campion.

Free from the World

ET him that will, ascend the tottering seat
Of courtly grandeur, and become as great
As are his mounting wishes: as for me,
Let sweet repose and rest my portion be;
Give me some mean obscure recess, a sphere

Out of the road of business, or the fear
Of falling lower; where I sweetly may
Myself and dear retirement still enjoy:
Let not my life or name be known unto
The grandees of the time, tost to and fro
By censures or applause; but let my age
Slide gently by, not overthwart the stage
Of public action, unheard, unseen,
And unconcerned, as if I ne'er had been.
And thus, while I shall pass my silent days
In shady privacy, free from the noise
And bustles of the mad world, then shall I
A good old innocent plebeian die.

Death is a mere surprise, a very snare
To him, that makes it his life's greatest care
To be a public pageant; known to all,
But unacquainted with himself, doth fall.

Sir Matthew Hale.

Cælum non Animum

OE find some whispering shade neare Arne or
Poe,

And gently 'mong their violets throw

Your weary'd limbs, and see if all those faire

Enchantments can charme griefe or care.

Our sorrowes still pursue us, and when you

The ruin'd capitoll shall view

And statues, a disordered heape; you can
Not cure yet the disease of man,

And banish your owne thoughts. Goe travaile where
Another Sun and starres appeare,

And land not toucht by any covetous fleet,

And yet even there youre selfe you 'le meete.
Stay here then, and while curious exiles find
New toyes for a fantastique mind;

Enjoy at home what's reall: here the Spring
By her aeriall quires doth sing

As sweetly to you as if you were laid

Under the learned Thessalian shade.

Direct your eye-sight inward, and you 'le find

A thousand regions in your mind

Yet undiscover'd. Travell them, and be
Expert in home cosmographie.

This you may doe safe both from rocke and shelf:
Man's a whole world within himself.

W. Habington.

Content

WEET are the thoughts that savour of content;

The quiet mind is richer than a crowne;

Sweet are the nights in carelesse slumber spent ;

The poore estate scornes fortune's angrie frowne. Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, Beggars enjoy, when Princes oft do miss.

The homely house that harbors quiet rest,

The cottage that affords no pride nor care,

The meane that 'grees with Countrie musick best,
The sweet consort of mirth and musick's fare,
Obscured life sets downe a type of bliss;

A minde content both crowne and kingdom is.

Robert Greene.

Happy as a Shepherd

H what is love? It is a pretty thing,
As sweet unto a shepheard as a king,

And sweeter too;

For kings have cares that waite upon a
Crowne,

And cares can make the sweetest love to frowne:
Ah then, ah then,

If countrie loves such sweet desires do gaine,
What Lady would not love a Shepheard Swaine?

His flockes are foulded, he comes home at night,
As merry as a king in his delight,

And merrier too;