But by possession settled in,
They quickly play another part.
For beads and baubles we resign,
In ignorance, our shining store;
Discover nature's richest mine,
And yet the tyrants will have more.
Be wise, be wise, but do not try
How he can court, or you be won;
For love is but discovery:
When that is made, the pleasure's done.
Thomas Southerne, 1659-1746.
GOOD IN THINGS EVIL.
I KNOW thy soul believes
"Tis hard vice triumphs, and that virtue grieves; Yet oft affliction purifies the mind,
Kind benefits oft flow from means unkind.
Were the whole known, that we uncouth suppose,
Doubtless 'twould beauteous symmetry disclose.
The naked cliff that, singly, rough remains,
In prospect dignifies the fertile plains,
Lead-colored clouds in scattered fragments seen,
Show, though in broken views, the blue serene.
Sword law has often Europe's balance gained,
And one red victory years of peace maintained.
We pass through want to wealth, through dismal strife
To calm content, through death to endless life.
Richard Savage, 1698-1743.
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 are all gold, and his beauties are best;
He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest,
And foretells 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,
And melts into tears; when he breaks out and shines,
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.
Isaac Watts, 1674-1748.
'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night! We make the grave our bed, and then are gone. Thus at the shut of eve the weary bird
Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake
Cowers down and dozes till the dawn of day,
Then claps his well-fledged wings and bears away.
Robert Blair, 1699-1746.
THE spirit walks of every day deceased,
And smiles an angel, or a fury frowns.
Edward Young, 1684-1765.
TIRED Nature's sweet restorer,-balmy Sleep!
He, like the world, his ready visit pays
Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes
Swift on his downy pinions flies from woe,
And lights on lids unsullied by a tear.
UNCERTAINTY OF HAPPINESS.
THE spider's most attenuated thread
Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie
Of earthly bliss: it breaks at every breeze.
A CHRISTIAN dwells, like Ariel, in the sun.
Too low they build who build below the stars.
PATIENCE and resignation are the pillars
Of human peace on earth.
THE bell strikes one. We take no note of time
But from its loss: to give it then a tongue
Is wise in man. As it an angel spoke,
I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright,
It is the knell of my departed hours.
Where are they? With the years beyond the flood
It is the signal that demands despatch:
How much is to be done? My hopes and fears
Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge
Look down-on what? A fathomless abyss.
A dread eternity! how surely mine!
And can eternity belong to me,
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
THE EMPTINESS OF RICHES.
CAN gold calm passion, or make reason shine?
Can we dig peace or wisdom from the mine?
Wisdom to gold prefer, for 'tis much less
To make our fortune than our happiness:
That happiness which great ones often see,
With rage and wonder, in a low degree,
Themselves unbless'd. The poor are only poor.
But what are they who droop amid their store?
Nothing is meaner than a wretch of state;
The happy only are the truly great.
PROCRASTINATION.
BE wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer;
Next day the fatal precedent will plead:
Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life.
Procrastination is the thief of time;
Year after year it steals till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
A SUMMER MORNING.
WITH quicken'd step
Brown night retires: young day pours in apace,
And opens all the lawny prospect wide.
The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top,
Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn.
Blue, through the dusk, the smoking currents shine:
And from the bladed field the fearful hare
Limps awkward; while along the forest glade
The wild deer trip, and often turning gaze
At early passenger. Music awakes
The native voice of undissembled joy;
And thick around the woodland hymns arise.
Roused by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves
His mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells:
And from the crowded fold, in order, drives
His flock, to taste the verdure of the morn.
James Thomson, 1700-'48.
INVOCATION TO SPRING.
COME, gentle Spring! ethereal mildness, come,
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veiled in a shower
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.
James Thomson.
ALONG these blushing borders, bright with dew,
And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers,
Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace,
Throws out the snowdrop and the crocus first;
The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue,
And polyanthus of unnumbered dyes;
The yellow wallflower, stained with iron-brown,
And lavish stock that scents the garden round;
From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed
Anemones; auriculas, enriched
With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves :
And full ranunculus of glowing red.
Then comes the tulip race, where Beauty plays
Her idle freaks; from family diffused
To family, as flies the father dust,
The varied colors ran; and, while they break
On the charmed eye, th' exulting florist marks
With secret pride the wonders of his hand.
O MORTAL man, who livest here by toil,
Do not complain of this thy hard estate:
That, like an emmet, thou must ever moil,
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date;
And, certes, there is for it reason great:
For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail,
And curse thy star, and early drudge and late;
Withouten that would come an heavier bale,
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale.
THE MISERIES OF HUMAN LIFE.
AH! little think the gay, licentious, proud,
Whom pleasure, pow'r, and affluence surround!
They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel riot waste;
Ah! little think they, while they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, death,
And all the sad variety of pain :
How many sink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flame: how many bleed,
By shameful variance betwixt Man and Man;
How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms;
Shut from the common air and common use
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