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" O when shall that eternal morn appear, “ These dreadful forms to chase, this chaos dark

to clear ! " O Thou, at whose creative smile, yon heaven, “ In all the pomp of beauty, life, and light, “ Rose from th' abyss; when dark confusion,

driven “ Down down the bottomless profound of night,

Fled, where he ever flies Thy piercing sight; “ O glance on these sad shades one pitying ray, “ To blast the fury of oppressive might;

• Melt the hard heart to love and mercy's sway, “ And cheer the wandering soul, and light him

on the way."

Stanza 40. Fancy enervates, while it soothes the heart, “ And, while it dazzles, wounds the mental sight: “ To joy each heightening charm it can impart, “ But wraps the hour of woe in tenfold night, And often, where no real ills affright, " Its visionary fiends, an endless train, “ Assail with equal or superior might, And through the throbbing heart, and dizzy

brain, “ And shivering nerves, shoot stings of more than

mortal pain. " And yet, alas; the real ills of life “ Claim the full vigour of a mind prepared,

Prepared for patient, long, laborious strife, " Its guide Experience, and Truth its guard. “ We fare on earth as other men have fared : " Were they successful? Let not us despair. “ Was disappointment oft their sole reward?

Yet shall their tale instruct, if it declare, “ How they have borne the load ourselves are

doom'd to bear.



DEAR Cloe, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,

In Folly's maze advance;
Tho' Singularity and Pride
Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside,

Nor join the giddy dance.
From the gay world we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,

Where Love our hours employs ;
No noisy neighbour enters here,
No intermeddling stranger near,

To spoil our heart-felt joys.
If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies,

And they are fools who roam ; The world hath nothing to bestow, From our own selves our bliss must flow,

And that dear hut our home. Of rest was Noah's dove bereft, When with impatient wing she left That safe retreat, the

ark ; Giving her vain excursions o'er, The disappointed bird once more

Explor'd the sacred bark. Tho' fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers, We, who improve his golden hours,

By sweet experience know, That marriage, rightly understood, Gives to the tender and the good,

A paradise below. Our babes shall richest comforts bring; If tutor'd right, they'll prove a spring

Whence pleasures ever rise; 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 every day,
And they 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 power;
For, if our stock be very small,
'Tis 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 Cloe, 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.
Thus hand in hand thro’ life we'll go,
Its checker'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,


Pereunt et imputantur.

TO-MORROW, didst thou say ;
Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow.

. Go to- I will not hear of it.-To-morrow! 'Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury Against thy plenty-who takes thy ready cash, And pays thee nought but wishes, hopes, and pro

mises, The currency of idiots.--Injurious bankrupt, That gulls the easy creditor!-To-morrow! It is a period nowhere to be found In all the hoary registers of time, Unless, perchance, in the fool's calendar. Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society With those who own it. No, my Horatio, 'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father; Wrought of such stuff as dreams are, and baseless As the fantastic visions of the evening.

But soft, my friend-arrest the present moments;
For, be assured, they all are arrant tell-tales ;
And tho' their flight be silent, and their path
Trackless as the wing'd couriers of the air,
They post to heaven, and there record thy folly;
Because, tho'stationed on the important watch,
Thou, like a sleeping faithless sentinel,
Didst let them pass unnotic'd, unimprov'd.
And know, for that thou slumber'dst on the guard,
Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar
For every fugitive; and when thou thus
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal
Of hood-winkt justice, who shall tell thy audit?
Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio ;
Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings.
'Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more pre-

Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain !
Oh! let it not elude thy grasp, but, like
The good old patriarch upon record,
Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee,



FRIENDS (for I cannot stint, as some have done,
Too rigid in my view, that name to one ;).
Friends, not adopted with a school-boy's haste,
But chosen with a nice discerning taste,
Well-born, well-disciplined, who, placed apart
From vulgar minds, have honour much at heart;
And, though the world may think the ingredients

The love of virtue, and the fear of God!
Such friends prevent what else would soon succeed,
A temper rustic as the life we lead,

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