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Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.

Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,
That tends to make one honest man my foe.

Who shames a scribbler? Break one cobweb through,

He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew;
Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Throned in the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines.

He who, still wanting, though he lives on theft,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left.

What future bliss He gives thee not to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.

All nature is but art, unknown to thee,
All chance, direction which thou canst not see.

"T is education forms the common mind;
Just as the twig is bent the tree's inclined.
Manners with fortunes, humors turn with climes,
Tenets with books, and principles with times.
Who shall decide when doctors disagree?

And then mistook reverse of wrong for right.
That secret rare between the extremes to move,
Of mad good-nature and of mean self-love.

Ye little stars, hide your diminished rays. Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name.

'Tis strange the music should his cares employ To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy.

Something there is more needful than expense,
And something previous e'en to taste, —'t is sense.
In all let Nature never be forgot,
But treat the goddess like a modest fair,
Not over-dress nor leave her wholly bare;
Let not each beauty everywhere be spied,
Where half the skill is decently to hide.

Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,
Make the soul dance upon a jig to heaven.

'Tis use alone that sanctifies expense,
And splendor borrows all her rays from sense.
To rest the cushion and soft dean invite,
Who never mentions hell to ears polite.

And knows where faith, law, morals, all began,
All end, in love of God and love of man.

Know then this truth, enough for man to know,
Virtue alone is happiness below.

Happier as kinder in whate'er degree,
And height of bliss but height of charity.

If then to all men happiness was meant
God in externals could not place content.

Order is Heaven's first law, and, this confest,
Some are, and must be, greater than the rest.
Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense,
Lie in three words, health, peace, and compe-

tence.

But health consists with temperance alone,
And peace, O Virtue! peace is all thine own.

Fortune her gifts may variously dispose,
And these be happy called, unhappy those;
But Heaven's just balance equal will appear,
When those are placed in hope, and these in fear.
"But sometimes virtue starves, while vice is fed";
"What then, is the reward of virtue, - bread ?
That vice may merit, 't is the price of toil,

The knave deserves it when he tills the soil."

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An angel face

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In radiant ripples bathad the graceful throat

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Of the sweet mouth a smile seemed wandering ever;
While in the depths of azure fire that gleamed
Beneath the drooping lashes, slept a world
of sloquent meaning, passionate yet pure
Dreamy ~ subdued — but oh, how beautiful!

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Edgar AZ.

POEMS OF FANCY.

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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 heapéd 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 reapéd 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?
Where's the eye, however blue,
Doth not weary? Where's the face
One would meet in every place?
Where's the voice, however soft,
One would hear so very oft?

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
Let then winged Fancy find
Thee a mistress to thy mind;
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,
Ere the God of Torment taught her
How to frown and how to chide;
With a waist and with a side
White as Hebe's, when her zone
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,
And such joys as these she 'll bring:
Let the wingéd Fancy roam !
Pleasure never is at home.

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IMAGINATION.

JOHN KEATS.

FROM PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION."

Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes
The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake
Fresh pleasure, unreproved. Nor thence partakes
Fresh pleasure only; for the attentive mind,
By this harmonious action on her powers,
Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft
On outward things to meditate the charm
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home
To find a kindred order, to exert
Within herself this elegance of love,
This fair-inspired delight: her tempered powers
Refine at length, and every passion wears
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.

MARK AKENSIDE.

A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN.

I DREAMED that as I wandered by the way
Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring,
And gentle odors led my steps astray,

Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring
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,
But kissed it and then fled, as Thou mightest in
dream.

O BLEST of heaven, whom not the languid There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,

songs

Of luxury, the siren! not the bribes

Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils
Of pageant honor, can seduce to leave
Those ever-blooming sweets, which from the store
Of nature fair imagination culls

To charm the enlivened soul! What though not

all

Of mortal offspring can attain the heights
Of envied life; though only few possess
Patrician treasures or imperial state;
Yet nature's care, to all her children just,
With richer treasures and an ampler state,
Endows at large whatever happy man
Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp,
The rural honors his. Whate'er adorns
The princely dome, the column and the arch,
The breathing marble and the sculptured gold
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim,
His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the Spring
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem
Its lucid leaves unfolds; for him the hand
Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch
With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn.
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings;
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze

Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets;

Faint ox-lips; tender bluebells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that

wets

Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears,

When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.
And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,

Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colored May,
And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day;
And wild roses, and ivy serpentine

With its dark buds and leaves, wandering

astray;

And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold,
Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.

And nearer to the river's trembling edge

There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white,

And starry river-buds among the sedge,

And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge With moonlight beams of their own watery

light;

And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

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