The opaline, the plentiful and strong,
Yet beautiful as is the rose in June,
Fresh as the trickling rainbow of July :
Sea full of food, the nourisher of kinds,
Purger of earth, and medicine of men ;
Creating a sweet climate by my breath,
Washing out harms and griefs from memory,
And, in 'my mathematic ebb and flow,
Giving a hint of that which changes not.
Rich are the sea-gods: -who gives gifts but they?
They grope the sea for pearls, but more than pearls:
They pluck Force thence, and give it to the wise.
For every wave is wealth to Dædalus,
Wealth to the cunning artist who can work
This matchless strength. Where shall he find,

O waves!

A load your Atlas shoulders cannot lift?

I with my hammer pounding evermore The rocky coast, smite Andes into dust, Strewing my bed, and, in another age, Rebuild a continent of better men. Then I unbar the doors: my paths lead out The exodus of nations: I disperse

Men to all shoves that front the hoary main.

BORROWING.

FROM THE FRENCH.

SOME of your hurts you have cured,
And the sharpest you still have survived,
But what torments of grief you endured
From evils which never arrived!

HERI, CRAS, HODIE.

SHINES the last age, the next with hope is seen, To-day slinks poorly off unmarked between ; Future or Past no richer secret folds,

O friendless Present! than thy bosom holds.

LINES AND COUPLETS.

FROM POPE.

WHAT, and how great the virtue and the art, To live on little with a cheerful heart.

Between excess and famine lies a mean,
Plain, but not sordid, though not splendid, clean.

Its proper power to hurt each creature feels: Bulls aim their horns, and asses kick their heels.

Here Wisdom calls, "Seek virtue first, be bold; As gold to silver, virtue is to gold."

Let lands and houses have what lords they will, Let us be fixed and our own masters still.

'Tis the first virtue vices to abhor, And the first wisdom to be fool no more.

Long as to him who works for debt, the day.

Not to go back is somewhat to advance,
And men must walk, at least, before they dance.
True, conscious honor is to feel no sin;
He's armed without that's innocent within.

For virtue's self may too much zeal be had,
The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.

If wealth alone can make and keep us blest,
Still, still be getting; never, never rest.

That God of nature who within us still
Inclines our actions, not constrains our will.

It is not poetry, but prose run mad.

Pretty in amber to observe the forms

Of hair, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms : The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the mischief they got there!

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.

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."

What nothing earthly gives or can destroy,
The soul's calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy.
Honor and shame from no condition rise;
Act well your part, there all the honor lies.

Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave,
Is but the more a fool, the more a knave.

Who noble ends by noble means obtains,
Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains,
Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed
Like Socrates, that man is great indeed.
What's fame? A fancied life in others' breath.

One self-approving hour whole years outweighs Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas.

As heaven's blest beam turns vinegar more sour.

Lust through some certain strainers well refined Is gentle love, and charms all womankind.

Vice is a monster of such hideous mien That to be hated needs but to be seen; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace.

Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law, Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw; Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, A little louder, but as empty quite.

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