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THUS, then, I steer my bark, and sail

On even keel with gentle gale;
At helm I make my reason sit,
My crew of passions all submit.

If dark and blustering prove some nights,
Philosophy puts forth her lights;
Experience holds the cautious glass,
To shun the breakers, as I pass,
And frequent throws the wary lead,
To see what dangers may be hid;
And once in seven years I'm seen
At Bath or Tunbridge to careen.
Though pleased to see the dolphins play,
I mind my compass and my way.
With store sufficient for belief,
And wisely still prepared to reef,
Nor wanting the dispersive bowl
Of cloudy weather in the soul,

I make (may Heaven propitious send
Such wind and weather to the end),
Neither becalmed nor overblown,
Life's voyage to the world unknown.

MATTHEW GREEN.

THE ROSARY OF MY TEARS.

SOME reckon their age by years,
Some measure their life by art;

But some tell their days by the flow of their tears,
And their lives by the moans of their heart.

The dials of earth may show

The length, not the depth of years,

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FROM "THE PLEASURES OF HOPE."*

UNFADING Hope! when life's last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return! Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour! O, then thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power! What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye! Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life's eternal day, Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin, And all the phoenix spirit burns within!

Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb; Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll Cimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul ! Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of Dismay, Chased on his night-steed by the star of day! The strife is o'er, -the pangs of Nature close, And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze, The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze, On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, Float the sweet tones of star-born melody; Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still Watched on the holy towers of Zion hill !

Eternal Hope! when yonder spheres sublime
Pealed their first notes to sound the march of Time,
Thy joyous youth began, but not to fade.
When all the sister planets have decayed;
When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow,
And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world
below;

Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile,
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE VANITY OF THE WORLD.
FALSE world, thou ly'st thou canst not lend
The least delight:

Thy favors cannot gain a friend,
They are so slight:

This poem was written when the author was but twenty-one years of age.

Thy morning pleasures make an end
To please at night:

Poor are the wants that thou supply'st,
And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st
With heaven fond earth, thou boasts; false
world, thou ly'st.

Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales

Of endless treasure;

Thy bounty offers easy sales

Of lasting pleasure;

Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails,
And swear'st to ease her;

There's none can want where thou supply'st;
There's none can give where thou deny'st.
Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou
ly'st.

What well-advised ear regards

What earth can say ?

Thy words are gold, but thy rewards
Are painted clay :

Thy cunning can but pack the cards,
Thou canst not play :

Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st;

If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st:

Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint

Of new-coined treasure;

A paradise, that has no stint,

No change, no measure;

A painted cask, but nothing in 't,
Nor wealth, nor pleasure:

Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'st
With man; vain man! that thou rely'st
On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth,
thou ly'st.

What mean dull souls, in this high measure,
To haberdash

In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure
Is dross and trash?

The height of whose enchanting pleasure
Is but a flash?

Are these the goods that thou supply'st
Us mortals with? Are these the high'st?
Can these bring cordial peace? false world, thou

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My prime of youth is but a frost of cares;

My feast of joy is but a dish of pain;

My crop of corn is but a field of tares;
And all my good is but vain hope of gain:
The day is [fled], and yet I saw no sun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung;
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green;
My youth is gone, and yet I am but young;

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen :
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun ;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

I sought my death, and found it in my womb;
I looked for life, and saw it was a shade;
I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb;
And now I die, and now I am but made:
The glass is full, and now my glass is run;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

CHIDIOCK TYCHBORN.

LINES

FOUND IN HIS BIBLE IN THE GATE-HOUSE AT
WESTMINSTER.

E'EN such is time; that takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days:
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

THE SOUL'S ERRAND.

Go, soul, the body's guest,

Upon a thankless arrant! Fear not to touch the best,

The truth shall be thy warrant : Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie.

Go, tell the court it glows

And shines like rotten wood; Go, tell the church it shows

What's good, and doth no good. If church and court reply, Then give them both the lie.

Tell potentates they live
Acting by others' action,
Not loved unless they give,
Not strong but by a faction:
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition That manage the estate, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate: And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie.

Tell them that brave it most,

They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost,

Seek nothing but commending: And if they make reply, Then give them all the lie.

Tell zeal it wants devotion;

Tell love it is but lust; Tell time it is but motion;

Tell flesh it is but dust: And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie.

Tell age it daily wasteth;

Tell honor how it alters;
Tell beauty how she blasteth;
Tell favor how it falters:
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.

Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles

Herself in over-wiseness:
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.

Tell physic of her boldness;

Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldness;

Tell law it is contention :
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.

Tell fortune of her blindness;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindness;

Tell justice of delay :

And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell arts they have no soundness,

But vary by esteeming ;

Tell schools they want profoundness,

And stand too much on seeming:

If arts and schools reply,

Give arts and schools the lie.

Tell faith it's fled the city;

Tell how the country erreth;
Tell, manhood shakes off pity;
Tell, virtue least preferreth :
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.

So when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing,
Although to give the lie

Deserves no less than stabbing, —
Yet, stab at thee that will,
No stab the soul can kill.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

LETTERS.

EVERY day brings a ship,
Every ship brings a word;
Well for those who have no fear,
Looking seaward well assured
That the word the vessel brings
Is the word they wish to hear.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

BRAHMA.

IF the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.
Far or forgot to me is near;

Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;

And one to me are shame and fame. They reckon ill who leave me out;

When me they fly, I am the wings; I am the doubter and the doubt,

And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven ;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

BRAHMA'S ANSWER.

ONCE, when the days were ages,
And the old Earth was young,
The high gods and the sages
From Nature's golden pages

Her open secrets wrung.

Each questioned each to know

Whence came the Heavens above, and whence the

Earth below.

Indra, the endless giver

Of every gracious thing

The gods to him deliver,

Whose bounty is the river

Of which they are the spring -
Indra, with anxious heart,

Ventures with Vivochunu where Brahma is a part.

"Brahma! Supremest Being!

By whom the worlds are made,
Where we are blind, all-seeing,
Stable, where we are fleeing,

Of Life and Death afraid,
Instruct us, for mankind,
What is the body, Brahma? O Brahma! what
the mind?"

Hearing as though he heard not

So perfect was his rest,

So vast the soul that erred not,

So wise the lips that stirred not

His hand upon his breast

He laid, whereat his face

-

Was mirrored in the river that girt that holy

place.

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