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Pretty in amber to observe the forms

| Know then this truth, enough for man to know, Of hair, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms :

| Virtue alone is happiness below. The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the mischief they got there!

Happier as kinder in whate'er degree,

And height of bliss but height of charity. Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.

| If then to all men happiness was meant, He who, still wanting, though he lives on theft, God in externals conld not place content. Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left.

Order is Heaven's first law, and, this confest, All nature is but art, unknown to thee,

Some are, and must be, greater than the rest. All chance, direction which thou canst not see.

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That secret rare between the extremes to move,
Of inad good-nature and of mean self-love. “But sometimes virtue starves, while vice is

fed";

“What then is the reward of virtue, - bread ? Ye little stars, hide your diminished rays.

That vice may merit, 't is the price of toil,

The knave deserves it when he tills the soil." Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name.

What nothing earthly gives or can destroy, 'Tis strange the music should his cares employ

The soul's calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy. To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy.

| As heaven's blest beam turns vinegar more sour. Something there is more needful than expense, And something previous e'en to taste, - 't is sense.

Lust through some certain strainers well refined

Is gentle love, and charms all womankind.
In all let Nature never be forgot,
But treat the goddess like a modest fair,
Not overdress nor leave her wholly bare ;

| Vice is a monster of such hideous mien Let not each beauty everywhere be spied,

That to be hated needs but to be seen ; Where half the skill is decently to hide.

Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,

We first endure, then pity, then embrace. 'T is use alone that sanctifies expense, And splendor borrows all her rays from sense. Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law,

Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw ; And knows where faith, law, morals, all began, Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, All end, - in love of God and love of man. | A little louder, but as empty quite.

POEMS OF FANCY.

MARK AKENSIDE.

FANTASY

Whose candid bosom the refining love

Of nature warms; 0, listen to my song, FROM "THE VISION OF DELIGHT."

And I will guide thee to her favorite walks, Break, Fantasy, from thy cave of cloud, And teach thy solitude her voice to hear, And spread thy purple wings,

And point her loveliest features to thy view. Now all thy figures are allowed,

And various shapes of things ;
Create of airy forms a stream,
It must have blood, and naught of phlegm ;

HALLO, MY FANCY.
And thoagh it be a waking dream,
Yet let it like an odor rise

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To all the senses here,

In melancholic fancy,
And fall like sleep upon their eyes,

Out of myself,
Or music in their ear.

In the vulcan dancy,
BEN JONSON.

All the world surveying,
Nowhere staying,

Just like a fairy elf ;

Out o'er the tops of highest mountains skipping, DELIGHTS OF FANCY.

Out o'er the hills, the trees and valleys tripping, FROM "THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION." Outo'er the ocean seas, without an oar or shipping.

Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go ? As Memnon's marble harp renowned of old By fabling Nilus, to the quivering touch

Amidst the misty vapors, Of Titan's ray, with each repulsive string

Fain would I know Consenting, sounded through the warbling air

What doth cause the tapers ; Unbidden strains ; e'en so did Nature's hand

Why the clouds benight us To certain species of external things

And affright us, Attune the finer organs of the mind ;

While we travel here below. So the glad impulse of congenial powers, Fain would I know what makes the roaring thunOr of sweet sound, or fair-proportioned form,

der, The grace of motion, or the bloom of light, And what these lightnings be that rend the Thrills through imagination's tender frame,

clouds asunder, From nerve to nerve ; all naked and alive And what these comets are on which we gaze They catch the spreading rays ; till now the soul

and wonder. At length discloses every tuneful spring,

Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? To that harmonious movement from without, Responsive. Then the inexpressive strain

Fain would I know the reason Diffuses its enchantment ; Fancy dreams

Why the little ant, Of sacred fountains and Elysian groves,

All the summer season, And vales of bliss ; the Intellectual Power

Layeth up provision, Bends from his awful throne a wondering ear,

On condition And smiles ; the passions gently soothed away,

To know no winter's want : Sink to divine repose, and love and joy

And how housewives, that are so good and Alone are waking ; love and joy serene

painful, As airs that fan the summer. O attend, Do unto their husbands prove so good and gainWhoe'er thou art whom these delights can touch,

ful;

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Withali walh w mme Through the sosten pelain
vill the tapet besto 'errfread,
We shall stand io hume by the teething main
While the dark trace drawes verhead,
We shall park to more in the bind & the rain
bolure the last forcell was laid
Bar perkrop. I toll mut the x twow there often
When the fea Grocin her dead

jean delelor

And why the lazy drones to them do prove dis- | And fully upon one his desire hath founded, dainful.

Whom nothing else could please though the world Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

were rounded.

Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
When I look before me,
There I do behold

To know this world's centre,
There's none that sees or knows me;

Height, depth, breadth, and length,
All the world 's a-gadding,

Fain would I adventure
Running madding;

To search the hid attractions
None doth his station hold.

Of magnetic actions,
He that is below envieth him that riseth,

And adamantine strength. And he that is above, him that's below despiseth, Fain would I know it

desniseth Fain would I know if in some lofty mountain, So every man his plot and counter-plot deviseth. Where the morn sojourns, if there be trees or Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

fountain;

If there be beasts of prey, or yet be fields to Look, look, what bustling

hunt in.
Here I do espy ;

Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
Each another jostling,
Every one turmoiling,

Hallo, my fancy, hallo,
The other spoiling,

Stay, stay at home with me,
As I did pass them by.

I can thee no longer follow,
One sitteth musing in a dumpish passion,

For thou hast betrayed me, Another hangs his head because he's out of fashion,

And bewrayed me ; A third is fully bent on sport and recreation.

It is too much for thee. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

Stay, stay at home with me ; leave off thy lofty

soaring; Fain would I be resolved

Stay thou at home with me, and on thy books be How things are done ;

poring; And where the bull was calved

For he that goes abroad lays little up in storing : Of bloody Phalaris,

Thou 'rt welcome home, my fancy, welcome home And where the tailor is

to me. That works to the man i' the moon ! Fain would I know how Cupid aims so sightly; And how these little fairies do dance and leap so lightly ;

THE CLOUD.
And where fair Cynthia makes her ambles rightly.
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,

From the seas and the streams;
In conceit like Phaeton,

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
I'll mount Phæbus' chair,

In their noonday dreams.
Having ne'er a hat on,

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
All my hair a-burning

The sweet birds every one,
In my journeying,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
Hurrying through the air. *

As she dances about the sun.
Fain would I hear his fiery horses neighing, I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
Aud see how they on foamy bits are playing ; And whiten the green plains under;
All the stars and planets I will be surveying! And then again I dissolve it in rain,
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go ?

And laugh as I pass in thunder.

ANONYMOUS.

Fain also would I prove this,

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
By considering

And their great pines groan aghast ;
What that which you call love is : And all the night 't is my pillow white,
Whether it be a folly

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Or a melancholy,

Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers
Or some heroic thing!

Lightning, my pilot, sits :
Fain I'd have it proved, by one whom love hath In a cavern under is fettered the thunder ;
wounded,

It struggles and howls by fits.

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