Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame. Know then this truth, enough for man to know,

Virtue alone is happiness below.
Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,
That tends to make one honest man my foe. Happier as kinder in whate'er degree,

And height of bliss but height of charity.
Who shames a scribbler ? Break one cobweb

If then to all men happiness was meante
He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew; God in externals could not place content.
Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,
The creature's at his dirty work again,

Order is Heaven's first law, and, this confest, Throned in the centre of his thin designs,

Some are, and must be, greater than the rest. Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines.

Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense, He who, still wanting, though he lives on theft, Lie in three words, — health, peace, and compe

tence. Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left.

But health consists with temperance alone, What future bliss He give thee not to know, And peace, O Virtue ! peace is all thine own. But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.

Fortune her gifts may variously dispose, All nature is but art, unknown to thee,

And these be happy called, unhappy those ; All chance, direction which thou canst not see. But Heaven's just balance equal will appear,

When those are placed in hope, and these in fear. 'Tis education forms the common mind; Just as the twig is bent the tree's inclined. “But sometimes virtue starves, while vice is fed";

“What then, is the reward of virtue, — bread ? Manners with fortunes, humors turn with climes, That vice may merit, 't is the price of toil, Tenets with books, and principles with times.

The knave deserves it when he tills the soil.” Who shall decide when doctors disagree ?

What nothing earthly gives or can destroy, And then mistook reverse of wrong for right.

The soul's calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy. That secret rare between the extremes to move,

Honor and shame from no condition rise ; Of mad good-nature and of mean self-love.

Act well your part, there all the honor lies. Ye little stars, hide

Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave, your diminished


Is but the more a fool, the more a knave.
Who builds a church to God, and not to fame,
Will never mark the marble with his name.

Who noble ends by noble means obtains,

Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains, 'Tis strange the music should his cares employ Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy.

Like Socrates, that man is great indeed. Something there is more needful than expense, What's fame? A fancied life in others' breath. And something previous e'en to taste, - 't is sense.

One self-approving hour whole years outweighs In all let Nature never be forgot,

Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas.
But treat the goddess like a modest fair,
Not over-dress nor leave her wholly bare ;

As heaven's blest beam turns vinegar more sour.
Let not each beauty everywhere be spied,
Where half the skill is decently to hide. Lust through some certain strainers well refined

Is gentle love, and charms all womankind.
Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,
Make the soul dance upon a jig to heaven. Vice is a monster of such hideous mien

That to be hated needs but to be seen; 'Tis use alone that sanctifies expense,

Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
And splendor borrows all her rays from sense.

We first endure, then pity, then embrace.
To rest the cushion and soft dean invite,
Who never mentions hell to ears polite.

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.

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In za diant nipples bathad the graceful throak

And dimpled shoulders; round the rosy
Of the sweet month a smile seemed wandering wor;
While in the depths of azure fire that gleamed

Beneath the drooping lashes, slept as world
Of eloquent meaning, passionate yet pure
Dreamy, ar subdued - but oh, how beautiful!


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Ever let the Fancy roam !
Pleasure never is at home :
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;
Then let wingéd Fancy wander
Through the thought still spread beyond her:
Open wide the mind's cage-door,
She 'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ;
Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the spring
Fades as does its blossoming ;
Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
Cloys with tasting : What do then?
Sit thee by the ingle, when
The sear fagot blazes bright,
Spirit of a winter's night ;
When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the cakéd snow is shuffled
From the plough-boy's heavy shoon;
When the Night doth meet the Noon
In a dark conspiracy
To banish Even from her sky.
Sit thee there, and send abroad
With a mind self-overawed

Fancy, high-commissioned ;- send her !
She has vassals to attend her;
She will bring, in spite of frost,
Beauties that the earth hath lost;
She will bring thee, all together,
All delights of summer weather ;
All the buds and bells of May
From dewy sward or thorny spray !
All the heaped autumn's wealth,
With a still, mysterious stealth ;
She will mix these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup,
And thou shalt quaff it; - thou shalt hear
Distant harvest-carols clear ;
Rustle of the reaped corn ;
Sweet birds antheming the morn ;
And in the same moment - hark !
'T is the early April lark,
Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Foraging for sticks and straw.
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
The daisy and the marigold ;
White-plumed lilies, and the first
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
Shaded hyacinth, alway
Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
And every leaf and every flower
Pearléd with the self-same shower.
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Meagre from its celléd sleep;
And the snake all winter-thin
Cast on sunny bank its skin;
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
Quiet on her mossy nest;
Then the hurry and alarm
When the beehive casts its swarm ;
Acorns ripe down-pattering
While the autumn breezes sing.

O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ;
Everything is spoilt by use :
Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
Too much gazed at ? Where's the maid


Whose lip mature is ever new ?

Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes Where's the eye, however blue,

The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain Doth not weary? Where's the face From all the tenants of the warbling shade One would meet in every place ?

Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake Where's the voice, however soft,

Fresh pleasure, unreproved. Nor thence partakes One would hear so very oft ?

Fresh pleasure only ; for the attentive mind, At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth

By this harmonious action on her powers, Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.

Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft Let then wingéd Fancy find

On outward things to meditate the charm Thee a mistress to thy mind;

Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,

To find a kindred order, to exert
Ere the God of Torment taught her Within herself this elegance of love,
How to frown and how to chide ;

This fair-inspired delight : her tempered powers With a waist and with a side

Refine at length, and every passion wears
White as Hebe's, when her zone

A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.
Slipt its golden clasp, and down
Fell her kirtle to her feet,
While she held the goblet sweet,
And Jove grew languid. - Break the mesh

Of the Fancy's silken leash ;
Quickly break her prison-string,

I DREAMED that as I wandered by the way
And such joys as these she 'll bring :

Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring, Let the winged Fancy roam !

And gentle odors led my steps astray, Pleasure never is at home.

Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring JOHN KEATS.

Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay

Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling

Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, IMAGINATION.

But kissed it and then fled, as Thou mightest in

dream. PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION." O BLEST of heaven, whom not the languid There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,

Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, songs

The constellated flower that never sets ;
Of luxury, the siren ! not the bribes
Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils

Faint ox-lips ; tender bluebells, at whose birth Of pageant honor, can seduce to leave

The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall flower that

wets Those ever-blooming sweets, which from the store Of nature fair imagination culls

Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, To charm the enlivened soul! What though not When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. all

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, Of mortal offspring can attain the heights

Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colored May, Of envied life; though only few possess

And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine Patrician treasures or imperial state ;

Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day; Yet nature's care, to all her children just, With richer treasures and an ampler state,

And wild roses, and ivy serpentine

With its dark buds and leaves, wandering Endows at large whatever happy man

astray ; Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp,

And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold, The rural honors his. Whate'er adorns

Fairer than any wakened eyes behold. The princely dome, the coluinn and the arch, The breathing marble and the sculptured gold And nearer to the river's trembling edge Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the Spring with white, Distils her dews, and from the silken gem And starry river-buds among the sedge, Its lucid leaves unfolds ; for him the hand And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch

Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. With moonlight beams of their own watery Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings; light; And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.


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