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FIRE-SIDE. 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 ev'ry 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 pow'r ;
For, if our stock be very small,
”T is 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 Chloe, 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.

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Thus, hand in hand, thro’ life we 'll go;
Its checquer'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 thro' 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.

MADNESS.

BY THE REV. THOMAS PENROSE.

SWELL the clarion, sweep the string,

Blow into rage the Muse's fires!
All thy answers, Echo, bring,
Let wood and dale, let rock and valley ring,

”T is Madness' self inspires.

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Hail, awful MADNESS, hail!

Thy realm extends, thy powers prevail,
Far as the voyager spreads his ’vent'rous sail.

Nor best nor wisest are exempt from thee;
Folly-Folly's only free.

Hark!—To the astonish'd ear
The gale conveys a strange tumultuous sound.
They now approach, they now appear,-

Phrenzy leads her Chorus near,
And Dæmons dance around.

Pride-Ambition, idly vain-
Revenge, and Malice, swell her train,--
Devotion warp’d-Affection crost-

Hope in disappointment lostAnd injur’d Merit, with a downcast eye, (Hurt by neglect) slow stalking heedless by,

Loud the shouts of Madness rise,
Various voices, various cries,
Mirth unmeaning-causeless moans,

Bursts of laughter-heart-felt groans. All seem to pierce the skies.

Rough as the wintry wave that roars
On Thule's desert shores,

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